\/ 

s\ 


BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC  (1899) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC  (1900) 

MELOMANIACS  (1902) 

OVERTONES  (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OP  DRAMATISTS  (i 

VISIONARIES  (1905) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN  (1909) 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST  (191$?' 

FRANZ  LISZT.     ILLUSTRATED  (1911) 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE  (1912) 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS  (1915) 

WORT  APES  AND  PEACOCKS  (1915) 

CJNICORNS  (1917) 

BEDOUINS  (192Q) 

BTEEPLEJACK  (1920) 

VARIATIONS  (1921) 

LETTERS  (1922) 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


STEEPLEJACK 


(/ 


STEEPLEJAC 


BY 

JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKEH 


**/  find  no  swtettrfat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones" 
— WALT  WHITMAN. 


Two  VOLUMES  IN  ONE 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNF 


STEEPLEJACK 


BY 

JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 


"I  find  no  swfftfrfat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones." 
— WALT  WHITMAN. 


Two  VOLUMES  IN  ONE 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


-3 


nzc 


THIS    BOOK 

OF  VANITY,  DREAMS,  AND  AVOWALS 
IS   INSCRIBED    TO    MY    DEAR    FRIEND 

ALDEN  MARCH 

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF  OF  THE  "  PHILADELPHIA  PRESS" 

(In  whose  columns  the  following  pages  appeared  daily  from  June 
gth  to  November  gth,  1918.) 


And  now  when  the  Great  Noon  had  come  Steeple 
jack  touched  the  tip  of  the  spire  where  instead 
of  a  cross  he  found  a  vane  which  swung  as  the 
wind  listeth.  Thereat  he  marvelled  and  rejoiced. 
"  Behold  ! "  he  cried,  "  thou  glowing  symbol  of  the 
New  Man.  A  weathercock  and  a  mighty  twirling. 
This  then  shall  be  the  sign  set  in  the  sky  for 
Immoralists:  A  cool  brain  and  a  wicked  heart. 
Nothing  is  true.  All  is  permitted,  for  all  is 
necessary."  Thug  gpake  Steeplejack. 


"I  am  not  what  I  am." 

"Othello.' 


98535$ 


CONTENTS 
VOLUME  I 

PAGE 

APOLOGY I' 3 

PART  I 

IN   OLD    PHILADELPHIA 
CHAPTER 

I.     I  AM  BORN  .      ..•.-.     .     *     .     .     .     .     .     .  13 

II.     MY  GRANDFATHERS     .  •   .     . 18 

III.  FAMILY  LIFE     .  •   .  • 34 

IV.  MY  MOTHER    .'....;. 51 

V.     I  Go  TO  SCHOOL    .     ...    V    . 62 

VI.    THE  PLAYERS 68 

VII.    THE  OLD  TOWN 74 

VIII.     I  AM  A  PENMAN 86 

IX.    THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  DAY     "... 94 

X.    MAGIC .     .     ...     .     .     .  102 

XI.    A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST    •    .  • 107 

XII.     LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS      .     .     ,     .     .     .     .     .  118 

XIII.  MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA    .      .,..  •   .  :  .,     ....  140 

XIV.  MY  FRIENDS  THE  JEWS 162 

XV.    THE  GIRLS  .     .•    .- 173 

XVI.     MUSIC-MADNESS     .•    .- •   .•   .•   £'-\    Y    .     .     .     .  184 

XVII.    JIM  THE  PENMAN    .•   .     .    V  ri    '.'';'•     .     .     .  194 

PART  II 

PARIS  FORTY  YEARS  AGO 

I.     I'M  AFLOAT       .     .*   .  *   ."   I     .     .     •  ••.    •     •     •  213 

II.     IN  PARIS  AT  LAST       .*   .'   .*.'   .'  .T    ....  218 

III.  THE  MAISON  BERNARD     .      .     .     ...     .     .     .  224 

IV.  MADAME  BEEFSTEAK  .      . 23l 

V.    THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN   ........  236 

VI.     BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST      .      .     ." 244 

VII.    AT  MAXIM'S      . .  280 

VIII.     I  INTERVIEW  THE  POPE    .      .      ..'...     .     .  290 

IX.    ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKE    .....  300 

vii 


VIII 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

X.     I  TREAT  A  KING    .     ,     . 305 

XI.     HOME  AGAIN 308 

XII.     ETERNITY  AND  THE  TOWN  PUMP 315 


VOLUME  II 
PART  III 

NEW  YORK 
(1877-1917) 

I.     I  CAPTURE  THE  CITY 3 

II.     MUSICAL  JOURNALISM 16 

III.  IN  THE  MAELSTROM 26 

IV.  THE  DE  RESZKES  AND  PADEREWSKI      ....  53 

V.      NORDICA   AND   FREMSTAD 57 

VI.    OSCAR  HAMMERSTEIN   .                 61 

VII.    ANTONIN  DVORAK                         , 65 

VIII.     STEINWAY  HALL .  70 

IX.    A  PRIMA  DONNA'S  FAMILY 72 

X.     NEWSPAPER  EXPERIENCES 88 

XI.       MONTSALVAT 99 

XII.  I  AM  A  FREE-LANCE   .........  109 

XIII.  CRITICISM .     . 122 

XIV.  WITH  JOSEPH  CONRAD 128 

XV.     BRANDES  IN  NEW  YORK 134 

XVI.    THE  COLONEL 141 

XVII.  DRAMATIC  CRITICS        .........  144 

XVIII.     EARLY  IBSEN 159 

XIX.    PICTURES 162 

XX.    NEW  YORK  IN  FICTION 169 

XXL    A  VOCAL  ABELARD       .    •, 179 

XXII.    "M'LLE  NEW  YORK" 189 

XXIII.  MY  DREAM-BARN 198 

XXIV.  MY  Zoo  .      .     .....*•     •     •     -     .  213 

XXV.     MY  BEST  FRIEND .  217 

XXVI.    AUTOGRAPH  LETTERS 224 

XXVII.     MID- VICTORIAN  MAX 251 

XXVIII.    G.  B.  S 257 

XXIX.  His  LETTERS      ...........  264 

XXX.    A  HALF-HAMLET 277 

INDEX      ....           313 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME  I 
James  Gibbons  Huneker Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

John  Huneker 22 

Elizabeth  Bowman  Huneker 22 

Mary  Gibbons  Huneker 154 

John  Huneker 154 

VOLUME  II 

James  Gibbons  Huneker,  1890 90 

My  Maiden  Flight 214 


APOLOGY 


APOLOGY 

The  avowals  of  a  Steeplejack!  Why  shouldn't  a 
steeplejack  make  avowals?  It  is  a  dangerous  occupa 
tion  and,  oddly  enough,  one  in  which  the  higher  you 
mount  the  lower  you  fall,  socially.  Yet  a  steeplejack, 
humble  as  is  his  calling,  may  be  a  dreamer  of  daring 
dreams,  a  poet,  even  a  hero.  I,  who  write  these  words, 
am  no  poet,  but  I  have  been  a  steeplejack.  I  have 
climbed  to  the  very  top  of  many  steeples  the  world  over, 
and  dreamed  like  the  rest  of  my  fellow  beings  the  dreams 
that  accompany  the  promenade  of  pure  blood  through 
young  arteries,  and  now  after  a  half  century,  I  shall  re 
port  these  dreams  and  their  awakenings;  for  the  differ 
ence  between  the  dream-world  and  what  we  are  pleased 
to  call  reality  is  something  which  no  poet,  philosopher,  or 
psychologist  has  yet  explained.  Whether  we  dream  at 
night  when  our  body  vegetates,  or  our  dreams  overflow 
into  our  waking  hours  does  not  much  matter.  To  dream 
is  to  exist.  I  dream  therefore  I  am,  might  be  the  form 
ula  of  a  second  Descartes.  And  who  enjoys  loftier 
dreams  than  a  steeplejack?  But  alas !  he  must  always 
return  to  earth,  else  perish  aloft  from  the  cold. 

When  a  boy  I  was  called  a  Johnny-Iook-in-the-air,  be 
cause  of  my  reckless  habit  of  rambling  into  obstacles, 
from  moving  locomotives  to  immovable  lamp-posts.  I 
suppose  I  was  dreaming;  at  least  I  was  walking  in  that 
pleasing  haze  we  call  egotism.  Now  a  large  dosage  of 
self-love  is  a  necessary  ingredient  in  the  formation  of 

3 


4  STEEPLEJACK 

character,  character  called  by  the  Greeks  a  man's  des 
tiny;  that  character  which  leads  to  success  only  when 
followed  no  matter  the  cost.  Chamfort  said  this,  but 
the  fog-fed  owls,  to  whose  care  our  tenderest  and  most 
susceptible  years  are  usually  confided,  cry  anathema. 
Cynical !  they  say.  Well,  what  if  it  be?  A  cynic  like  a 
pessimist,  is  only  a  man  who  tells  unpleasant  truths,  while 
your  optimist  spins  pleasing  lies,  therefore,  is  the  more 
popular  of  the  pair.  Nothing  succeeds  like  insincerity. 
A  steeplejack  never  lies.  His  truth  is  the  truth.  At 
least  I  thought  so  years  before  I  encountered  this  aphor 
ism  in  the  book  of  Max  Stirner,  an  anarch.  I  tried  to 
climb — always  in  the  azure — but  my  muscles  were  unde 
veloped  and  wings  I  had  none  to  speak  of;  the  conse 
quences  may  be  well  imagined.  Many  a  tumble,  broken 
bones,  and  what  sentimentalists  would  describe  as  shat 
tered  illusions.  Really,  no  illusions  were  dissipated. 
Fifty  years  have  passed  and  I  am  still  the  incorrigible 
dreamer  (with  one  eye  on  earthly  banquets)  and  a  steeple 
jack.  So  endure  my  childish  egotism,  doubled  by  the 
garrulity  of  an  elderly  person  who  ever  carries  his  um 
brella  abroad  even  when  the  sun  bathes  in  the  blue  bowl 
of  the  firmament. 

An  egotistical  steeplejack,  then,  but  not  a  spinner  of 
yarns;  that  is,  I  hope,  not  incredible  yarns;  though  lying 
is  like  a  forest — the  deeper  in  you  go  the  more  difficult 
it  is  to  escape.  The  narration,  on  whose  road  I  am 
starting  out  so  gaily,  may  puzzle  but  it  need  not  alarm 
you.  It  is  the  story  of  an  unquiet  soul  who  voyaged 
from  city  to  city,  country  to  country,  in  search  of  some 
thing,  he  knew  not  what.  The  golden  grapes  of  desire 
were  never  plucked,  the  marvellous  mirage  of  the  Seven 
Arts  never  overtaken,  the  antique  and  beautiful  porches 


APOLOGY 


of  philosophy,  the  solemn  temples  of  religion  never  pene 
trated.  Life  has  been  the  Barmecide's  feast  to  me — you 
remember  the  Arabian  Nights — no  sooner  did  I  covet  a 
rare  dish  than  fate  whisked  it  out  of  my  reach.  I  love 
painting  and  sculpture.  I  may  only  look  but  never  own 
either  pictures  or  marbles.  I  would  fain  be  a  pianist,  a 
composer  of  music.  I  am  neither.  Nor  a  poet.  Nor  a 
novelist,  actor,  playwright.  I  have  written  of  many 
things  from  architecture  to  zoology,  without  grasping 
their  inner  substance.  I  am  Jack  of  the  Seven  Arts, 
master  of  none.  A  steeplejack  of  the  arts.  An  egotist 
who  is  not  ashamed  to  avow  it.  Everyone  for  himself 
in  this  desert  of  egotism  called  life,  cried  Stendhal. 

George  Moore  has  said  that  "self-esteem  is  synono- 
mous  to  genius,"  a  delightful  concept  which  suddenly 
peoples  our  ark  of  mediocrity  with  wild  genius.  The 
Russian  proverb  sounds  a  deeper  note:  Egotism  is  the 
salt  of  life.  Of  pride  we  cannot  have  too  much,  wrote 
poor  Nietzsche,  who  has  been  unjustly  abused  for  /iis  pride, 
he  the  humblest  among  men.  This  dictum  of  his  was 
but  a  counsel  of  self-perfection.  Zola  called  attention 
to  the  egotism  of  the  English,  because,  as  he  naively  re 
marked,  their  personal  pronoun  is  capitalised  while  the 
French  write  "je,"  unless  beginning  a  sentence.  This 
is  a  slap  at  what  Pascal  described  as  the  "hateful  I." 
I  best  like  old  Walt  Whitman's  declaration  of  personal 
independence:  "I  find  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my 
own  bones."  .  .  .  Let  us  admit,  strictly  between  our 
selves,  that  we  are  all  egotists,  as  we  are  all  snobs,  ac 
cording  to  Thackeray.  Some  won't  acknowledge  this. 
But  it  is  true.  A  world  without  egotism  would  cease  to 
exist;  every  grain  of  sand  is  self-centred,  every  monad 
has  its  day.  Therefore,  bear  with  me  if  I  talk  of  my 


6  STEEPLEJACK 

petty  personal  affairs,  bear  with  my  "thunder  and  small 
beer,"  especially  the  chronicling  thereof.  A  critic  should 
confess  his  limitations,  draw  up  at  the  beginning  of  a 
book  a  formal  scenario  of  his  temperament,  prejudices, 
his  likes  and  dislikes.  A  French  critic,  Hennequin  did 
this,  and  has  since  served  as  an  exemplar  for  the  English 
writer,  John  M.  Robertson.  Then  your  readers  would 
know  what  to  expect,  would  discount  radical  utterances 
on  hearing  that  your  grandfather  had  been  a  Fenian  or 
that  your  aunt  was  opposed  to  female  suffrage.  This  is 
no  Apologia,  but  an  illuminating  diagram.  He  who  runs 
may  see,  may  read.  To  be  quite  frank,  I  had  rather 
echo  the  piteous  prayer  of  Charles  Baudelaire:  "Oh! 
Lord !  God !  Give  me  the  force  and  courage  to  contem 
plate  my  heart  and  body  without  disgust."  To  which 
we  should,  all  of  us,  heartily  reply:  "Amen." 

Taking  it  for  granted  that  I  am  an  egotist,  a  profes 
sional  egotist,  for  I  write  to  make  my  living  (he  who 
lives  by  the  pen  shall  perish  by  the  pen);  that  I  am  a 
newspaper  man  (not  a  "journalist,"  of  whom  the  late 
Joseph  Howard,  Jr.,  said:  "Newspaper  men  usually  sub 
scribe  to  pay  the  funerals  of  journalists"),  why  shouldn't 
I  write  my  memoirs,  relate  my  adventures  among  medi 
ocrities?  Benvenuto  Cellini  said  that  the  writing  of  his 
autobiography  was  the  duty  of  every  eminent  man — 
and  also  those  not  eminent,  slyly  adds  Leslie  Stephen, 
who  was  probably  thinking  of  Pepys.  It  is  my  belief 
that  every  man  on  the  threshold  of  life  should  write  both 
his  memoirs  and  his  obituary  so  as  to  match  them  with 
the  assembled  mature  patterns  of  his  career.  All  is 
relative — even  our  poor  relatives,  as  metaphysicians 
have  observed — so  it  doesn't  matter  what  you  gossip 
about,  whether  it  be  the  stars  or  clam-chowder.  The 


APOLOGY 


important  matter  lies  in  the  manner  of  gossiping.  The 
style  oft  proclaims  the  man.  (This  is  a  medley  of  Buf- 
fon  and  Shakespeare.)  In  his  charming  essay  on  Auto 
biography,  Leslie  Stephen  declared  that  "Nobody  ever 
wrote  a  dull  autobiography "  and  continuing  said  that 
"it  is  always  curious  to  see  how  a  man  contrives  to  pre 
sent  a  false  testimonial  to  himself.  It  is  pleasant  to  be 
admitted  behind  the  scenes  and  trace  the  growth  of  that 
singular  phantom,  which,  like  the  Spectre  of  the  Brocken, 
is  the  man's  own  shadow  cast  upon  the  coloured  and 
distorting  mists  of  memory."  Instead  of  ponderous 
philosophies  what  wouldn't  we  give  for  more  personalia 
from  the  ancient  world,  another  Petronius,  another  Sue 
tonius,  those  wicked  old  gossips.  Dame  Quickly  or  Jus 
tice  Shallow  are  as  vital  and  important  as  Hamlet  or 
Lear.  Mediocrity,  too,  is  the  salt  of  existence.  Didn't 
Mirabeau  cry:  "Mon  Dieu,  donnez-moi  la  mediocrite!  " 

No  man  or  woman  likes  to  be  classed  among  medi 
ocrities.  I  wonder  why?  We  are  middle-class — there  is 
no  "lower"  or  "upper"  class  in  our  country,  that,  William 
Jennings  Bryan  decided  several  years  ago;  our  ancestors 
were  for  the  most  part  proletarian — when  they  were  not 
criminals  dumped  over  here  by  England  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century — labourers,  runaways,  "patriots,"  the 
poor,  the  dissatisfied,  and  recently  the  very  dregs  of 
southeastern  Europe;  of  whom  should  we  be  particularly 
proud?  We  should  not  assume  either  the  airs  of  "fash 
ionable  folk"  or  of  supermen.  We  are  neither;  though 
the  Eternal  Snob  is  always  with  us — like  the  politician. 
Max  Beerbohm  summed  up  the  future  of  socialism  in  a 
memorable  epigram:  "  If  he  would  have  his  ideas  realised 
the  socialist  must  first  kill  the  snob." 

Why  shouldn't  we  enjoy  hearing  ourselves  called  medi- 


8  STEEPLEJACK 

ocre?  It  is  our  ingrained  Bovarysme — the  attempt  to 
seem  otherwise  than  we  are.  Thackeray  when  he  wrote 
his  Book  of  Snobs  was  not  aware  of  the  underlying  phi 
losophy  in  his  subject.  Since  his  day  a  young  French 
philosopher,  Jules  Gaultier,  has  set  forth  with  abundant 
testimony  his  doctrine  that  all  life  aspires  to  appear  other 
than  it  is;  the  Eternal  Camouflage,  the  Everlasting  Mas 
querade.  The  snob  is  only  a  tiny  manifestation  of  the 
cosmical  lie  that  permeates  all  sentient  beings.  It  is,  in 
brief,  an  Evolution  developed  under  the  aspect  of  eternity; 
this  clear  thinking  of  Young  France  outweighs  the  sub 
tle  but  sterile  and  scholastic  philosophy  of  Henri  Berg- 
son.  I  have  often  wondered  why,  armed  with  such  a 
viable  theory  as  this  of  M.  Gaultier  some  essayist  has 
not  made  a  plea  for  mediocrity.  Supermen,  superrogues, 
sentimental  humbugs,  are  done  to  the  death,  yet  not  a 
word  of  praise  is  given  the  garden  variety  of  the  human 
plant.  Like  the  "average  sensual  man"  and  "the  man 
in  the  street"  he  is  taken  for  granted.  Mediocrity  is 
the  backbone  of  our  country.  The  man  in  the  street 
whose  collective  opinion,  whose  vote  rules,  whose  fight 
ing  spirit  protects  us,  isn't  this  chap,  this  "fellowe  and 
his  wife,"  worth  studying?  A  majority  of  "exalted" 
souls  would  transform  America  into  a  howling  wilder 
ness.  The  word  "mediocrity"  has  become  debased  in 
meaning.  It  formerly  stood  for  the  happy  equilibrium 
of  our  mental  and  physical  forces.  The  golden  medi 
ocrity  of  the  Latin  poet.  To  its  possessor  it  spelled  con 
tent,  and,  as  long  as  the  wolf  was  kept  from  the  door, 
contentment  reigned.  That  is  the  precise  word — con 
tentment  not  happiness,  which  is  too  ecstatic  to  last 
without  burning  up  nerve-tissue  or  without  insanity 
supervening.  To  be  contented  was  once  a  gift  of  the 


APOLOGY 


gods;    nowadays  it  means  that  you  are  commonplace, 
without  social  ambitions.     And  this  is  not  well. 

Notwithstanding  that  we  are  a  nation  of  one  hundred 
million  humans  (mostly  busybodies  and  politicians,  as 
Carlyle  would  say)  we  are  each  in  his  own  fashion  en 
deavouring  to  escape  the  imputation  of  mediocrity.  In 
vain.  Number  is  mediocrity.  We  think  to  order,  vote 
as  we  are  bidden,  and  wear  the  clothes  we  are  ordered 
to  wear  by  destroyers  of  taste.  Why  then  this  mad  de 
sire  to  be  exceptional,  whence  this  cowardice  that  shud 
ders  before  genuine  art,  and  espouses  the  mediocre  be 
cause  it  is  more  soothing  to  fat  nerves?  Let  us  hear  the 
truth.  It  is  because,  happily  for  us,  mediocrity  is  the 
normal  condition  of  mankind,  and  genius  is  not.  We 
pretend  that  we  are  not  mediocre — Ah !  Bovarysme  in 
escapable — yet  we  proudly  point  to  our  national  pros 
perity.  Says  Emerson:  "Is  it  not  the  chief  disgrace  in 
the  world  not  to  be  a  unit;  to  be  reckoned  one  character, 
not  to  yield  that  peculiar  fruit  which  each  man  was 
created  to  bear,  but  to  be  reckoned  by  the  gross,  in  the 
hundreds  of  thousands,  of  the  party,  of  the  section  to 
which  we  belong,  and  our  opinion  predicted  geographi 
cally,  or  the  north  or  the  south?"  I  confess  however 
I  like  to  saunter  from  my  own  bailiwick  and  watch  my 
neighbour.  Anything  human  or  inhuman  interests.  Not 
that  I  am  a  Paul  Pry,  but  because  curiosity  assuaged  is  a 
prime  condiment  in  the  cuisine  of  life.  We  are  all  hypo 
crites,  whether  we  call  ourselves  idealists  or  pragmatists. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  altruism,  only  certain  souls 
who,  self-illuded,  believe  themselves  to  be  disinterested. 
Be  frank.  Be  egotists,  like  myself,  and  the  rest  of  men 
and  women  and  children — the  supreme  egotists.  Con 
fess  in  your  narrow,  timorous  souls  that  there  is  nothing 


io  STEEPLEJACK 

so  interesting  as  yourself.  You  confess  in  prayer,  to 
the  most  personal  of  gods.  Yourself.  The  world  is 
your  dream.  The  world  is  my  dream.  I  have  only  to 
die  and  it  no  longer  exists.  In  telling  you  of  my  experi 
ences  I  am  not  bound  to  consider  your  prejudices  or 
compelled  to  apply  a  poultice  to  your  vanity.  If  you 
don't  care  to  take  the  excursion  to  the  other  side  of  the 
moon  you  need  not.  It  strays  away  from  my  beloved 
Philadelphia,  and  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome,  it  returns 
to  Philadelphia.  A  half  century  later.  The  loop  is 
large,  it  includes  many  people,  many  customs,  many 
lands.  Come,  let  us  be  off!  And  I  hope  my  bark  of 
dreams  headed  in  a  trice  for  a  remote  and  exquisite 
Cythera,  does  not  bump  into  some  paludian  wharf  at 
morose  and  melancholy  Camden. 

Pray  accept  me  as  a  steeplejack  of  dreams,  an  egotist, 
a  mediocrity,  and  these  Avowals  merely  as  the  chemistry 
of  saturation  and  precipitation.  In  an  old  book  a  char 
acter  crys:  "Five  minutes  more  and  I  confess  every 
thing."  Wise  Mother  Church  was  aware  of  one  of  our 
profoundest  instincts  when  she  instituted  the  sacrament 
of  Confession.  After  this  discursive  prelude,  I  promise 
to  tell  you  everything,  even  though  it  blisters  the  paper 
on  which  it  is  printed,  which  Edgar  Allan  Poe  asserted 
would  happen  if  a  man  wrote  his  inmost  thoughts. 
Autobiography  is  but  fiction  disguised,  from  St.  Augus 
tine  to  Huysmans.  If  I  bore  you — which  is  sure  to 
happen — I  am  not  altogether  to  blame.  Like  the  nai've 
old  Frenchman  who  was  living  unknown  during  the 
most  brilliant  period  of  French  literature,  I  desperately 
cry:  "Even  if  nothing  else,  I  am,  at  least,  a  contem 
porary." 


PART  I 
IN  OLD  PHILADELPHIA 


I 

I  AM  BORN 

Let  us  begin  at  the  beginning.  I  am  the  second  son 
of  my  parents,  and  was  born  under  the  sign  of  Aquarius, 
symbol  of  inconstancy,  literally,  before  my  time,  for  I 
am  a  seventh  months'  child;  not,  however,  born  with 
a  caul  like  David  Copperfield;  yet  an  object  of  curiosity 
to  the  neighbours,  and  a  cause  of  extreme  solicitude  to 
my  parents.  I  was  told  by  my  old  nurse,  a  devoted 
Irish  servant,  with  us  over  a  quarter  of  a  century — 
where  are  such  servants  to  be  found  in  1919? — that  I 
reposed  in  a  little  box  heavily  wadded  with  wool,  and 
on  the  mantelpiece,  which  in  the  houses  of  those  days 
was  broad  and  commodious.  A  queer  way  to  begin 
life,  the  top  of  a  hearth.  No  doubt  I  would  have  figured 
in  an  incubator  if  there  had  been  such  an  institution. 
The  fact  of  my  premature  birth  is  not  of  national  im 
portance,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  has  solved  several  puzzling 
questions  for  me.  The  health  of  my  mother  had  been 
delicate  for  a  year  and  the  death  of  an  infant  sister 
brought  much  sorrow  into  her  life.  Naturally,  such 
mental  and  physical  conditions  reacted  unfavourably  on 
my  organism.  I  was  what  boys  contemptuously  call  a 
cry-baby.  That  unfortunate  cotton-wool  pursued  me 
for  years.  I  was  not  only  a  cry-baby  but  a  child  that 
always  kept  close  to  its  mother's  skirts.  I  had,  still 
have,  the  mother-cult.  In  early  childhood  it  was  an 
obsession.  Mother's  boys  seldom  fight  back,  and  I 
was  no  exception.  I  am  not  an  unqualified  believer  in 

13 


i4  STEEPLEJACK 

heredity,  because  of  the  disconcerting  slap  in  the  face 
so  often  given  the  investigator  by  data.  Weismann 
has  asserted  that  acquired  traits  are  not  transmitted. 
This  must  be  true  as  neither  my  father  nor  mother  were 
tearful  persons;  if  they  were  sentimental  it  was  normal, 
and  it  belonged  to  their  period,  sometimes  called  the 
Mid-Victorian.  Let  us  call  it  Before  the  War,  that 
liberating  war  of  1861  which  well-nigh  disrupted  the 
Union.  My  morbid  sensibility  may  be  set  down  to  my 
unexpected  appearance  in  the  vale  of  sorrows,  and  I  long 
suffered  from  shyness,  absurd  sentimentality  and  a  hor 
ror  of  the  actual.  Need  I  add  that  I  have  bravely  out 
lived  this  youthful  bashfulness? 

In  everyone's  memory  there  is  at  least  one  glittering 
peak  around  which  cluster  or  swirl  the  mists  of  minor 
happenings  peculiar  to  childhood.  Naturally,  I  can't 
recall  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  but  I  remember  as  sharply 
as  if  it  were  yesterday  a  walk  down  Chestnut  Street, 
clinging  to  my  mother's  hand,  scared  but  curious.  The 
entire  world  was  out  in  holiday  mood.  Independence 
Hall  was  decorated  with  flags.  People  were  cheering. 
Bands  playing.  The  most  vivid  recollection,  the  high 
light  of  the  moment  was  the  deafening  sound  of  bells. 
There  were  the  bells  on  the  old-fashioned  hose-carts, 
and  they  were  rung  by  red-shirted  firemen.  Confused 
by  the  clangour,  the  crowds,  I  asked  my  mother  what  it 
all  meant.  She  answered:  "Richmond  has  fallen."  I 
didn't  understand.  What  could  Richmond  mean  to  a 
boy  still  in  skirts?  Although  I  was  reading  Dickens  at 
the  age  of  seven,  it  was  years  before  I  appreciated  the 
significance  of  that  phrase,  the  first  one  that  I  can  recall 
from  my  mother's  lips:  "Richmond  has  fallen." 

The  next  high-light  was  the  excitement  over  the  assas- 


I   AM  BORN  15 


sination  of  President  Lincoln.  Philadelphia,  no  matter 
her  Tory  leanings  during  the  war  of  the  Revolution,  is 
an  intensely  patriotic  city,  and  that  patriotism  reached 
my  infantile  sensorium  despite  the  fact  I  had  no  com 
prehension  of  the  tragic  event.  The  way  it  was  fixed  in 
my  brain-cells  came  about  in  this  fashion.  An  image  is 
more  lasting  than  an  idea,  and  the  image  was  the  result 
of  a  picture,  a  living  one,  framed  by  either  side  of  lower 
Chestnut  Street.  Night-time.  Torches  illuminated  a 
vast  and  solemn  procession  which  moved  at  a  funereal 
pace.  It  had  seemed  to  me  years,  before  this  mournful 
column  passed  the  printing-office  of  my  grandfather 
Gibbons,  at  No.  333  Chestnut.  From  my  mother's  arms 
I  was  permitted  to  peep  from  time  to  time  through  a 
window  on  the  third  floor.  The  windows  were  crowded. 
Our  family  must  have  been  there.  I  fell  asleep.  I  was 
awakened  by  the  words:  "Here  comes  General  Han 
cock."  Another  mystery.  Dazzled  by  the  moving  lights 
I  made  out  a  huge  dark  object,  but  didn't  understand  its 
meaning.  Nevertheless,  I  was  unconsciously  assisting 
at  the  obsequies  of  the  greatest  man  since  George  Wash 
ington  to  whom  the  United  States  has  given  birth- 
Abraham  Lincoln.  His  remains  lay  in  state  at  Inde 
pendence  Hall,  April  22,  1865,  of  that  I  remember 
nothing.  But  the  flare  of  the  torches,  the  moving 
catafalque,  and  the  rumours  of  a  people  in  mourning  I 
shall  never  forget. 

The  third  high-light  found  me  older  and,  for  my  age, 
an  omnivorous  reader.  Anything  from  Shakespeare  to 
the  weather  reports  in  the  Daily  Ledger  were  welcome. 
Stendhal — Henry  Beyle — boasted  that  his  brain  de 
manded  a  thousand  cubic  feet  of  ideas  daily  to  stoke  up 
the  cerebral  system  (a  steamboat  brain),  but  I  needed 


1 6  STEEPLEJACK 

more;  if  not  ideas,  then  words.  The  rather  uncertain 
science  of  meteorology  in  its  infancy,  enthralled  my 
imagination.  The  clouds  were  my  constant  preoccupa 
tion.  A  pillar  of  fire  by  night — the  stars  and  moon— 
the  clouds  in  daylight.  "J'aime  les  nuages.  ...  la 
has.  ..."  I  could  have  cried  with  my  adored  poet, 
Baudelaire.  But  the  sad,  bad,  mad,  and  unhappy 
Frenchman  didn't  bother  me  in  1870.  I  was  too  busy 
on  the  roof  of  our  house  at  1434  North  Seventh  Street — 
it  still  stands,  this  house,  between  Master  and  Jefferson, 
although  the  trolley-car  conductors  have  not  begun  to 
point  it  out  as  my  birthplace — watching  for  storms. 
Well,  one  came,  and  for  years  I  didn't  wish  to  see  an 
other.  It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  in  May, 
warm,  sultry,  threatening,  stormy.  From  my  observa 
tory — a  barrel  in  the  garret,  my  head  popping  out  of 
an  aperture  in  the  roof,  I  noted  with  joy  and  fear  a  tre 
mendous  disturbance  in  the  western  sky  beyond  the 
Schuylkill  River.  Two  clouds,  of  greenish-yellow  hue 
rushed  towards  each  other,  interlocked,  and  after  a  brief 
struggle,  melted  into  one  ominous  funnel-shaped  appari 
tion.  The  classic  tornado  shape,  though  evidently  on  a 
miniature  scale  if  contrasted  with  a  Kansas  "twister." 
But  size  wasn't  the  quality  that  scared  me,  it  was  the 
terrific  speed  and  scream  of  the  approaching  monster. 
I  hurriedly  closed  the  trapdoor  and  almost  fell  down 
stairs  yelling:  "Whirlwind,  whirlwind!"  Midnight 
blackness  had  settled  upon  the  city  by  the  time  our  win 
dows  were  tightly  closed.  The  wind  was  terrifying,  the 
lightning  and  thunder  made  me  hide  under  pillows. 
That  storm  was  accompanied  by  hail  that  broke  more 
windows  and  ruined  more  crops  than  any  storm  in  or 
around  Philadelphia  since  then.  The  Camden  tornado 


I  AM  BORN  17 


of  August  3,  1885,  did  much  more  harm  to  life  and  prop 
erty.  The  exact  year  of  this  great  hailstorm?  I  don't 
know.  I've  read  Hazen's  study,  The  Tornado,  but  this 
storm  is  not  mentioned.  I  fancy,  it  must  have  been 
in  1870  or  1871,  about  the  epoch  of  the  Franco-Prussian 
War.  It  was  some  years  after  the  installation  of  the 
horse-car  line  on  Seventh  Street,  which  I  remember,  be 
cause  as  car  sixty-six  went  by  I  was  told  that  the  year 
was  1866.  The  Franco- Prussian  War  I  can  recall 
as  my  mother,  an  ardent  lover  of  France  and  all 
things  French,  argued  the  case  with  a  neighbour,  a 
German,  and  always  lost  her  temper.  From  this  dates 
my  precocious  interest  in  French  art  and  literature, 
and  I  lay  the  blame  on  the  Centennial  Exposition  of 
1879  f°r  my  subsequent  running  away  to  Paris.  I 
mention  these  three  high-lights:  war,  assassination,  and 
tornadoes,  as  proof  that  I  was  predestined,  willy-nilly,  to 
become  a  newspaper  writer. 


II 

MY  GRANDFATHERS 

I  come  of  an  old-fashioned,  middle-class  family  on 
both  sides,  notwithstanding  the  radical  Celtic  strain. 
My  father,  John  Huneker,  was  the  son  of  a  John  Hun- 
eker,  organist  of  St.  Mary's  Roman  Catholic  Church  on 
South  Fourth  Street.  Somewhere  in  the  old  church 
yard  is  my  grandfather's  tomb.  I  have  not  succeeded 
in  finding  it.  The  elder  Huneker  was  organist  in  the 
year  1806,  and  the  reason  I  know  is  a  letter  in  my  hand 
which  is  dated  "Philada.,  December  22nd,  1806"  and 
quaintly  addressed  "To  the  clergy  and  managers  of  St. 
Mary's  Church."  In  this  letter  my  grandfather,  true 
to  type,  protests  that  since  he  is  appointed  organist  of 
the  said  church  he  "proposed  to  be  choir-director  or 
else — !"  The  usual  choir  row. 

A  certain — the  name  looks  like  Mr.  Ansan,  but  is 
hardly  legible — had  hitherto  directed  and  instructed  the 
choir.  This  didn't  suit  the  plans  of  the  old  gentleman, 
hence  the  protest.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  Huneker 
tribe,  as  well  as  of  the  musical  profession.  All  or  nothing 
—Either — Or.  No  happy  medium  for  them.  Steeple 
jacks.  Dreamers.  Only  hard  knocks  from  experience 
made  them  come  to  earth.  How  the  dispute  was  set 
tled  deponent  saith  not,  but  as  my  grandfather  was  or 
ganist  of  St.  Mary's  many  years,  I  fancy  he  had  his  way. 
At  this  juncture  I  have  a  painful  duty  to  perform.  Far 
be  from  me  to  betray  a  lack  of  piety  in  the  matter  of 
such  a  forebear  (I  never  saw  him).  His  daguerreotype 
shows  him  to  have  been  a  well-set-up  man  with  regular 

18 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  19 

features,  and  evidently  of  a  florid  complexion.  He  com 
posed  a  sacred  anthem  for  voice  and  organ  in  1826. 
Worse  remains.  He  actually  published  the  composition. 
It  is  entitled,  "The  Vale  of  the  Cross,"  words  by  Roscoe. 
It  is  distinctly  bad,  not  mediocre,  but  stupid,  indiffer 
ently  written — there  are  false  progressions,  banal  har 
monies — and  I  regret  that  after  so  many  years  my  con 
science  forces  me  to  criticise  adversely  the  work  of  an 
ancestor.  I  shan't  speak  of  the  open-fifths  and  parallel 
octaves;  to-day  the  new  men  in  music  violate  every  rule 
of  the  old  masters;  need  I  refer  to  Richard  Strauss, 
Schoenberg,  Stravinsky?  But  my  grandfather  did  not 
possess  the  brilliant  gifts  of  these  modern  composers. 
If  his  blood  didn't  flow  in  my  veins,  I  should  be  con 
strained  to  add  that  his  creative  gifts  were  not  much  in 
evidence  in  this  composition,  no  matter  his  executive 
ability  in  the  handling  of  organ  manuals  and  treading 
the  pedals;  otherwise  he  is  said  to  have  been  a  kindly 
gentleman.  With  you,  I  also  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  at 
accomplishing  my  duty.  Later  I  fear  I  shall  be  com 
pelled  by  the  same  motive  to  criticise  my  maternal  grand 
father  for  his  manipulation  of  the  anapestic  measure, 
also  for  writing  sonnets  of  thirteen  lines,  though  Sydney 
Dobell  did  the  same  afterwards. 

In  New  York  you  ask  a  man  what  will  he  take;  in 
Boston,  who  is  his  favourite  composer;  in  Chicago,  how 
many  he  has  killed  that  day;  but  in  my  dear  old  town 
the  question  always  resolves  itself  into — were  you  born 
above  or  below  Market  Street?  Anyhow,  this  street 
was  the  social  Rubicon  when  I  was  a  boy.  On  this  side 
of  the  Pyrenees — Truth;  on  the  other  side — Error.  I 
was  born  in  No  Man's  Land,  a  barbarian  in  the  outer 
wilderness.  But  while  the  Hunekers  were  not  of  an 


20  STEEPLEJACK 

aristocratic  strain  we  were  not  newcomers  in  the  land. 
I  wonder  how  many  fashionable  folk  in  New  York, 
Boston,  and  Philadelphia  can  trace  their  family  back  to 
the  year  1700?  It  doesn't  matter  much,  but  the  blare 
of  social  trumpets  still  deafen  me  when  I  visit  my  "home 
town,"  so  that  I  feel  like  querying:  "Did  your  family 
come  over  before  or  after  the  centennial?  I  used  to  ask 
my  father  who  vtere  his  ancestors.  His  whimsical  reply 
was:  "Pudding-weavers  down  at  the  Neck,"  which  made 
me  laugh,  but  left  me  wondering.  What's  a  pudding- 
weaver?  I  know  where  the  Neck  is,  or  was.  Hog 
Island  has  an  affinity  with  such  puddings.  Produce 
farmers,  perhaps — Oh!  Chopin,  Oh!  Verlaine — perhaps 
my  grandfather's  father  made  blood-sausages.  I  refuse 
to  believe  it,  only — that  subtle  allusion  to  the  weaving 
of  black  pudding !  Martin  I.  J.  Griffin,  an  authority  on 
historical  research,  a  genealogist,  particularly  interested 
in  old  American  Catholic  families,  wrote  my  brother, 
John  Huneker,  that  "Mark  Honyker,  in  1782,  gave 
twenty-five  pounds  to  enlarge  St.  Mary's  Church.  He 
was  an  uncle  of  John  Huneker.  Your  family  in  Phila 
delphia  goes  back  to  1700,  and  were  among  the  earliest 
Catholic  settlers."  A  tradition  is  that  the  family  orig 
inally  stemmed  from  Hungary,  then  an  autonomous 
state.  An  old  Viennese  Bible,  dated  1750,  spells  the 
name  Hunykyr,  though  we  can't  claim  alliance  with  the 
noblest  among  Hungarian  families,  Janos  Hunyadi.  Well 
I  recollect  the  fear  this  bible  aroused  with  its  pictures 
of  the  damned  in  hell;  indeed,  I  conceived  my  first  prej 
udice  against  the  theological  hell  because  of  those  cruel 
illustrations. 

There  are  various  strains  in  our  blood  in  the  paternal 
line:  Hungarian,  English,  and,  no  doubt,  sturdy  Pennsyl- 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  21 

vania  Dutch;  the  Irish  blood  we  derive  from  the  distaff 
side;  Gibbons  and  Duffy.  But  my  father's  mother  was 
a  Bowman  and  related  to  the  Coopers.  From  data 
furnished  by  our  second  cousin,  George  E.  Walton,  I 
learn  that  Charles  Bowman,  while  a  theological  student 
fled  to  America  because  of  political  opinions,  and  on 
June  13,  1777,  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  State 
of  Pennsylvania.  He  was  prominent  in  business  as  in 
civil  and  religious  affairs  later,  and  with  Messrs.  Oellers, 
Drexel,  Reufner,  and  others,  Charles  Bowman  became 
responsible  for  the  building  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  at  Sixth  and  Spruce  Streets, 
of  which  he  was  a  trustee.  His  associates  withdrew  their 
names  and  support,  and  unfortunately  left  Bowman  to 
complete  the  church,  which  resulted  in  his  mental  and 
financial  breakdown.  He  died,  broken-hearted,  about 
1820,  and  was  buried  in  Holy  Trinity  Churchyard. 
There  is  a  book  of  the  Bowman  genealogy  published  at 
Harrisburg,  1886,  but  it  seems  that  the  Philadelphia 
branch  is  separate  from  others  of  the  same  name.  Charles 
Bowman  married  first  Miss  Faunce,  by  whom  he  had 
three  daughters:  Mary  Bowman,  who  married  Harry 
Voigt;  Elizabeth  Bowman,  who  married  my  grandfather, 
John  Huneker;  Frances  Bowman,  who  married  Francis 
Cooper,  Jr.,  the  maternal  grandfather  of  George  E. 
Walton.  After  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  Charles  Bow 
man  married  a  widow,  Mrs.  Fox,  who  had  a  son,  John 
Fox,  the  father  of  the  late  Hon.  Daniel  M.  Fox,  formerly 
a  Mayor  of  Philadelphia.  With  Daniel  M.  Fox  I  studied 
law  and  conveyancing  at  No.  508  Walnut  Street,  in  1876 
— or  wrent  through  the  motions  of  studying.  His  sons 
are  Henry  Korn  Fox,  well  known  in  that  city,  and  William 
Henry  Fox,  at  present  Director  of  Art  at  the  museum  on 


22  STEEPLEJACK 

the  Eastern  Parkway,  Brooklyn.  The  Coopers  and 
Bowmans  were  patriotic,  and  participated  in  the  Revo 
lutionary  War,  as  well  as  the  War  of  1812.  Even  if 
we  were  not  F.  F.  V.'s,  we  could  belong  to  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  Revolution.  Some  of  us  do.  Since 
the  recent  happy  recrudescence  of  patriotic  sentiment 
in  this  country  it  is  consoling  to  know  that  your  family 
stock  is  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  native  soil.  But  the 
Gibbons  side  is  another  story.  That  once  told  we  shall 
quickly  get  afloat  on  the  stream  of  memories. 

The  acute  sensitiveness,  the  instability  of  tempera 
ment,  the  alternations  of  timidity  and  rashness,  the  mor 
bid  exaltation  and  depression  which  were,  and  still  are, 
the  stigmata  of  my  personal  "case" — as  the  psychiatrists 
put  it — come  from  the  Irish  side  of  my  house.  To  be 
sure,  the  two  months'  shortage  in  normal  gestation 
played  the  role  of  a  dissolvent  in  my  character.  Every 
human  is  a  colony  of  cells.  His  personality  is  not  a 
unit,  but  an  aggregation  of  units.  Duple,  triple,  sex 
tuple  personalities  have  been  noted  by  psychologists  in 
abnormal  cases.  Yet  I  firmly  believe  this  dissociation 
is  commoner  than  psychologists  would  have  us  believe. 
When  President  Woodrow  Wilson  spoke  of  his  "  single- 
track  mind,"  he  merely  proved  that  by  powerful  concen 
tration  he  was  able  to  canalise  one  idea,  to  focus  it,  and 
thus  dispose  of  it.  This  inhibitory  power  is  not  possessed 
by  everyone.  I,  for  example,  have  a  polyphonic  mind. 
I  enjoy  the  simultaneous  flight  of  a  half-dozen  trains  of 
ideas,  which  run  on  parallel  tracks  for  a  certain  distance, 
then  disappear,  arriving  nowhere.  This  accounts  for 
my  half-mad  worship  of  the  Seven  Arts  which  have  always 
seemed  one  single  art;  when  I  first  read  Walter  Pater's 
suggestion  that  all  the  other  arts  aspire  to  the  condition 


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W    2 

i  ^ 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  23 

of  music,  I  said:  "That's  it,"  and  at  once  proceeded  to 
write  of  painting  in  terms  of  tone,  of  literature  as  if  it 
were  only  form  and  color,  and  of  life  as  if  it  is  a  prom 
enade  of  flavours.  Now,  I  admit  that  this  method  apart 
from  its  being  confusing  to  the  reader,  is  also  aesthetically 
false.  It  didn't  require  Professor  Babbitt  to  tell  us  that 
in  his  New  Laocoon.  The  respective  substance  of  each 
art  is  different,  and  not  even  the  extraordinary  genius 
of  Richard  Wagner  could  fuse  disparate  dissimilarities. 
The  musician  in  him  dominated  the  poet,  dramatist,  and 
scene-painter.  And  in  this  paragraph  I  am  precisely 
demonstrating  what  I  spoke  of — my  polyphonic  habit  of 
thinking,  if  thinking  it  may  be  thus  called.  I  often  suffer 
from  a  "split"  or  dissociated  personalities,  hence  my 
discursiveness — to  call  such  a  fugitive  ideation  by  so 
mild  a  name.  But  I  started  to  tell  you  of  my  maternal 
grandfather  and  I  am  winding  up  on  Wagner.  Talk 
about  "free  fantasy"  in  a  modern  tone-poem,  or  a  five- 
voiced  fugue,  or  a  juggler  spinning  six  plates  at  once ! 

James  Gibbons  was  born  in  1801  in  Donegal,  the 
"far  down,"  the  "black  north"  as  they  say  in  Ireland. 
Not  finding  the  politics  of  his  land  to  his  taste  he  did 
what  millions  of  his  countrymen  have  done,  he  emi 
grated  to  America.  This  was  in  1820.  He  married 
Sarah  Duffy  and  settled  in  Philadelphia.  I  knew  him 
slightly  but  never  had  very  strong  affection  for  him. 
When  he  died  in  1873,  I  was  Just  m  mv  teens.  The  man 
was  reserved,  haughty,  and  to  my  younger  brother,  Paul, 
and  me  he  seemed  needlessly  harsh.  My  first  dislike 
was  born  of  his  admonishment  that  if  we  misbehaved  or 
worried  our  mother  he  would  cut  off  our  fingers.  There 
was  something  peculiarly  Celtic  in  this  cruel  threat,  not 


24  STEEPLEJACK 

that  the  Irish  are  bloody-minded  or  treat  their  children 
roughly,  but  the  race  is  imaginative.  It  deals  in  the 
hyperbolical.  Its  temperament  keeps  it  oscillating  'twixt 
hell  and  heaven.  Above  all,  the  gift  or  curse  of  expres 
siveness  has  never  been  denied  the  Irish.  They  love 
highly  coloured  phrases.  They  are  born  rhetoricians, 
from  a  Dublin  jaunting-car  driver  to  Edmund  Burke. 
My  grandfather  was  an  orator.  He  dealt  in  superlatives. 
To  hear  him  declaim  his  own  patriotic  verse — it  was 
patriotic  or  nothing — to  proclaim  the  wrongs  of  Emerald 
Isle,  to  denounce  the  enemy,  the  Sassenach — Ah !  where 
would  George  Moore  have  been  with  his  Erse  and  his 
aristocratic  condescension  to  the  men  of  County  Mayo ! 
My  relative  was  seldom  so  exuberant.  His  hatred  for  Eng 
land  and  the  English  is  historical  among  his  sympathisers. 
Probably  the  gravest  defect  in  my  character  is  my  in 
ability  to  hate  anyone,  or  anything  for  more  than  five 
minutes,  except  hypocrisy  and  noise.  They  say  a  man 
who  can't  hate  can't  love !  I  don't  subscribe  to  that. 
Probably  I  come  by  my  indifferent  temperament  from 
my  father,  who  would  curse  like  a  sea-pilot  and  in  a 
change  of  breath  caress  the  cat.  "Here,  Pussy!"  he 
would  say,  after  consigning  to  the  demnition  bow-wows 
one  of  his  workmen.  But  I  can  love,  intensely  love  an 
idea  or  an  art.  I  am  a  Yes-Sayer. 

The  fulminations  of  my  granddaddy  never  got  under 
my  skin.  Occasionally  he  would  take  me  on  his  knees 
— bony  they  were,  and  hurt  me — and  thus  adjure  me: 
"James,  you  are  my  grandson,  and  named  after  me. 
Never  forget  the  accursed  enemies  of  your  country." 
Meaning  the  English.  I  promised  him,  naturally,  and 
ever  since  have  bravely  battled  with  the  English  lan 
guage,  the  charmed  tongue  of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  25 

Swinburne,  and  I  am  always  defeated  in  the  verbal  fray. 
A  martyr  to  English  literature  and  Irish  patriotism. 

I  recall  certain  long  summer  afternoons  the  babble 
of  men's  voices,  the  cigar  smoke,  and  the  clinking  of 
glasses  when  a  Fenian  pow-wow  was  held  in  our  dining- 
room.  I  also  remember  the  cynical  smile  of  my  father, 
who  detested  Fenianism  with  its  blow,  brag,  and  bluster. 
He  knew.  I  have  since  discovered  that  the  sincerity  of 
my  grandfather  couldn't  be  challenged.  But  my  father 
distrusted  some  of  the  "patriots"  who  surrounded  James 
Gibbons.  And  justly  so.  Joseph  Conrad  has  said  that 
in  every  revolution  the  bad  characters  come  first  to  the 
surface.  This  is  particularly  true  of  the  Fenian  move 
ment  of  the  sixties.  As  to  the  validity  of  the  cause  I 
may  say  nothing.  But  the  patriotic  motives  of  such 
men  as  James  Gibbons,  Patrick  J.  Meehan  (editor  of  The 
Irish -American),  James  Stephens,  the  Head-Centre  of  the 
European  Fenian  Brotherhood  (he  died  about  1901),  of 
General  Sweeney,  Charles  Roberts,  John  O'Neill,  and 
many  others,  no  one  could  impugn.  James  Gibbons  was 
the  vice-president  of  the  American  branch  of  the  Brother 
hood,  and  while  he  was  not  a  rich  man,  he  had  an  abun 
dant  income  from  his  printing-press  on  Chestnut  Street. 
That  thriving  business  was  swallowed  up  by  the  "patri 
ots,"  who  did  not  then  disdain,  as  they  do  not  disdain  to 
day,  the  humble  savings  of  the  servant-girl.  I  speak  by 
the  card,  for  I  have  often  heard  my  grandfather  savagely 
attack  these  blood-suckers  who,  with  the  flag  of  the  Emer 
ald  Isle — how  often  I  have  been  dazzled  by  that  golden 
sunburst — in  one  hand,  outstretched  the  other  greedily 
grasping  the  pennies  of  the  deluded  Irish  lads  and  lassies 
whose  hearts  were  bigger  than  their  brainpans. 

James  Gibbons  sacrificed  his  money,  his  family,  him- 


26  STEEPLEJACK 

self  in  the  vain  pursuit  of  patriotism.  He  was  called  the 
Irish  Poet,  Patriot  and  Printer,  and  while  his  powers  as 
a  poet  are  not  considerable  he  put  such  vehement  passion 
into  his  utterances  that  one  must  overlook  his  limping 
and  monotonous  verse.  I  hold  in  my  hand  a  small, 
unbound  book,  bearing  the  title:  Miscellaneous  and  Pa 
triotic  Poems  by  James  Gibbons.  Printed  for  private 
circulation,  1870.  A  harp  decorates  the  green  cover. 
Also  a  quatrain  beginning:  "Oh!  harp  of  my  country, 
the  pride  of  her  sages."  and  the  last  line,  "Thy  music 
still  lives  in  each  Irishman's  soul."  On  the  fly-leaf  is  the 
following,  written  in  an  abominable  scrawl — I  know  from 
whom  I  inherited  my  handwriting:  "To  my  dear  grand 
son,  Master  James  Huneker,  with  the  affectionate  re 
gards  of  his  grandfather."  Rather  touching,  isn't  it, 
from  a  man  who  never  considered  his  family,  friends,  or 
self-interest  when  confronted  by  his  duty  to  the  cause, 
who  dreamed,  Ireland  Free,  ate,  drank,  and  lived  with 
the  idea.  Only  Erin — the  devil  take  the  hindmost! 
His  was  a  fanaticism  that  would  have  ennobled  a  baser 
cause,  and  the  Lord  only  knows  the  Quid  Sod  has  its 
grievances.  But  to  capture  the  British  Empire  via 
Canada  has  also  seemed  to  me,  as  it  did  to  my  father,  the 
maddest  of  dreams.  The  Irish  and  the  Polish  are  of 
spiritual  kin  patriotically.  Individualists,  they  are  never 
happy  under  any  form  of  government. 

However,  James  Gibbons  and  his  associates  did  not 
think  this,  nor  were  they  discouraged  after  the  first  dis 
astrous  battle  in  Canada.  England  was  not  the  only 
object  of  my  grandfather's  abhorrence.  He  was  a  vio 
lent,  nay,  a  virulent  prohibitionist;  they  called  them 
selves  Temperance  Advocates  in  those  days,  but  they 
nowise  differed  as  to  intemperate  speech  from  the  pro- 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  27 

hibitfonfsts  of  1919.  All  fanatics  are  alike.  The  truth  is 
seldom  their  aim.  They  become  propagandists  no  matter 
the  silliness,  inutility,  or  the  positive  evil  of  their  cause. 
Consider  the  anti-vivisectionists,  the  opponents  to  vac 
cination,  or  any  such  baleful  cults.  James  Gibbons,  as 
his  obituaries  tell  me,  and  as  I  know  by  word  of  mouth 
from  my  mother,  was  largely  instrumental  in  bringing 
Father  Matthew  to  this  country  about  the  middle  of  the 
last  century.  Our  family  has,  or  had,  many  letters  from 
that  great  apostle  of  temperance,  Father  Matthew,  also 
from  Archbishop  McHale  to  James  Gibbons,  who  was  a 
member  of  St.  Augustine's  Church  a  half  century,  and 
an  active  and  zealous  worker  in  St.  Vincent  de 
Paul's  Society,  for  an  equal  period.  He  was  devoted 
to  the  succour  of  poor  orphans,  and  I  often  heard  his 
poem,  "The  Lament  of  the  Orphan  Boy,"  recited  or 
sung.  The  rind  of  the  man  was  sometimes  forbidding; 
he  had  suffered  from  many  disillusionments;  but  his 
heart  was  as  sentimental  as  an  Irishman's  only  can  be. 
I  have  seen  his  eyes  fill  at  the  mention  of  a  child's  sorrow, 
or  of  Ireland.  At  his  funeral  the  organist  of  St.  Augus 
tine's,  Henry  Thunder — the  father  of  the  present  con 
ductor  and  organist,  Henry  Gordon  Thunder — played 
"The  Exile  of  Erin."  He  was  an  exile  his  life  long,  and 
if  he  had  remained  in  Ireland  he  would  have  died  either 
from  disgust  or  on  the  gallows.  There  was  short  shrift 
for  "traitors"  in  1820. 

But  to  these  poems:  they  are  dedicated  to  his  daugh 
ter,  Mary  Gibbons  Huneker.  The  author  calls  them 
"fugitive  pieces,"  and  they  are.  Most  of  them  are  dog 
gerel,  though  the  best  are  marked  by  unfeigned  pathos 
and  burning  sincerity.  Those  are  musical  to  the  ear, 
written  in  the  simpler  forms,  and  strongly  influenced 


28  STEEPLEJACK 

by  Tom  Moore,  Campbell,  and  Byron.  "'Tis  sad  to 
say  farewell,  love,  Thy  absence  gives  me  pain,"  was 
once  upon  a  time  a  popular  song.  It  has  a  tuneful 
jingle  that  is  pleasing,  if  not  too  original.  I  like  the 
image,  "When  the  stars  hung  out  their  silver  lamps 
above  the  dark  blue  sea,"  even  if  h  is  since  faded  to  fatuity. 
There  is  a  poem  dedicated  to  ex-President  Tyler — we 
were  intimate  with  the  Tyler  family — but  the  "gem"  of 
the  collection  is  "A  Dream,"  which  appeared  in  the 
Philadelphia  Evening  Journal,  April  22,  1863.  I  wonder 
why  they  didn't  hang  the  poet  from  a  lamp-post.  It  was 
during  the  Civil  War,  and  a  year  of  red-hot  partisan 
ship.  The  Copperhead  was  an  outcast.  Abraham  Lin 
coln  had  not  been  canonised  by  martyrdom.  Nor  had 
he  been  idealised.  He  was  plain  Old  Abe,  and  half- 
mockingly,  half-affectionately  called  "The  Rail-Splitter." 
He  was  caricatured,  abused  in  print,  and  fathered  with 
many  a  doubtful  joke.  But  he  was  also  the  "Old  Abe" 
who  penned  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  the  "Old 
Abe"  who  delivered  the  Gettysburg  speech — the  English 
of  which  has  not  been  bettered  by  any  one  of  his  suc 
cessors  in  the  White  House;  an  English  which  came  from 
the  Bible  and  Bunyan,  and  hot  from  the  heart  of  the 
great  man  who  wrote  it.  Therefore,  my  astonishment 
is  all  the  greater  that  punishment,  swift,  condign,  did 
not  follow  the  publication  of  the  vitriolic  verses  signed 
by  James  Gibbons,  and  doubtless  inspired  by  that  other 
James  S.  Gibbons,  a  Quaker,  who  composed  the  once 
famous  lines  beginning:  "We  are  coming,  Father 
Abram."  My  grandfather's  amended  version  began: 
"We  are  coming,  Abram  Lincoln,  with  the  ghosts  of 
murdered  men."  I  repeat,  I  wonder  how  he  escaped 
death  or  imprisonment.  Both  were  summarily  dealt  to 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  29 

men  for  a  less  offence.  That  was  the  time  when  Secre 
tary  of  War  Stanton  is  reported  to  have  made  his  speech : 
"When  I  tap  this  little  bell,  I  can  send  a  man  to  a  place 
where  he  will  never  hear  the  dogs  bark."  I  quote  from 
an  exceptionally  treacherous  memory.  But  if  a  noncon 
formist,  James  Gibbons  was  a  loyal  citizen  and  not 
against  our  government. 

I  fancy  the  fact  that  he  was  a  poet  saved  Mr.  Gib 
bons  from  punishment.  The  other  verse  in  his  little 
book  is  harmless  enough.  "A  National  Temperance 
Song,"  dedicated  to  Francis  Cooper,  Esq.,  a  relative,  the 
music  by  B.  Cross,  the  father  of  the  late  Michall  Hurley 
Cross,  fills  my  cup  to  overflowing.  A  Gibbons  a  poet, 
even  a  poetaster,  is  credible  enough,  but  a  Gibbons  a 
prohibitionist  is  flying  in  the  very  face  of  probability. 
Yet  it  was  so.  Before  the  Fenian  movement  netted  him 
he  was  often  on  the  temperance  platform,  sometimes  in 
company  with  Father  Matthew.  It  is  the  only  blot  in 
our  'scutcheon — a  reformer  among  the  Gibbons  and 
Hunekers.  And  a  temperance  reformer.  The  pity  of 
it!  I  much  prefer  the  admirable  attitude  of  James, 
Cardinal  Gibbons,  of  Baltimore,  a  connection  of  my 
grandfather's,  who  has  pointed  out  that  true  temperance 
is  to  be  found  in  moderation,  not  in  total  prohibition. 
So  fierce  were  the  sentiments  of  James  Gibbons  on  his 
darling  themes  of  temperance  and  patriotism,  that  at  a 
meeting  of  Irish-Americans  in  Buffalo,  while  he  was  ad 
dressing  his  audience  the  floor  fell  in,  carrying  with  it 
the  concourse  of  patriots.  But  the  orator,  undismayed, 
hung  on  to  a  window-sill  and  continued  his  passionate 
address  on  the  wrongs  of  Ireland.  This  anecdote  may 
be  apocryphal.  I  never  heard  how  many  were  wounded 


STEEPLEJACK 


in  the  affair.  It  was  said  afterwards  that  to  kill  a  Gib 
bons,  the  only  sure  way  was  to  heave  a  brick  at  his 
head  when  one  of  the  tribe  was  caught  praying.  This 
is  an  oM  Donegal  superstition.  But  though  the  family 
can  boost  several  ecclesiastics,  not  one  has  been  over 
taken  in  prayer  by  an  enemy.  Nor  by  the  same  token 
have  any  of  the  Hunekers. 

Among  my  grandfather's  papers  I  found  a  copy  of  a 
letter,  dated  November  8,  1867,  and  addressed  to  "His 
Excellency,  Andrew  Johnson,  President  of  the  United 
State*/'  The  handwriting  is  that  of  my  mother,  who 
wrote  many  a  "State  paper"  for  her  father.  In  this 
letter  the  writer  airs  his  usual  grievance:  "Prominent 
Republicans  have  left  nothing  undone  to  seduce  by 
flattery  and  fair  promises  the  Fenian  or  Irish  vote  from 
its  allegiance  to  the  constitutional  party  of  the  country; 
how  far  they  have  been  successful  the  late  elections  will 
answer/'  Gibbons  then  makes  an  appeal  to  crush  the 
enemies  of  Ireland  in  the  country  and  stop  the  "insidious 
tyranny  of  England."  ...  "I  need  not  remind  your 
Excellency  that  England  has  never  acknowledged  citizen 
ship  in  an  Irishman,  when  her  interest  or  her  hate  stood 
in  the  way."  Toujours  England.  Whether  President 
"Andy,"  as  he  was  endearingly  called  by  an  ungrateful 
constituency,  ever  took  action  in  the  matter  I  can't  say. 
I  play  Bach  fugues  every  morning  after  breakfast,  but 
my  technique  in  American  history  still  leaves  much  to 
be  desired. 

Another  letter  which  throws  light  on  the  man  and 
contemporary  events  came  to  me  from  Richard  McCIoud, 
aUorm:y-at-J,v.v,  Duranr'o,  Colorado,  ft  is  dated  May 
7,  1909,  and  runs  thus:  "In  reading  the  Bookman  for 
May,  1909,  I  came  across  your  portrait  and  learned  that 


MY   GRANDFATHERS  31 

you  were  born  in  Philadelphia,  and  that  one  of  your 
grandfathers  was  an  Irishman,  a  poet,  and  also  vice- 
president  of  the  Fenian  Brotherhood  some  time  in  the 
early  seventies.  That  grandfather  and  I  were  great 
friends.  I  was  one  of  the  Senators  of  the  Fenian  Brother 
hood,  and  one  Sunday  in  1870,  a  short  time  before  the 
last  raid  on  Canada  the  Senators  had  a  meeting  in 
Philadelphia  at  the  house  of  your  grandfather.  He  was 
a  good  speaker  on  many  subjects.  I  lived  in  New  York 
and  had  a  desk  in  the  Custom  House,  and  was  a  student 
in  the  Columbia  College  Law  School.  James  Gibbons 
and  I  made  a  trip  from  New  York  to  Chicago  in  1870 
to  attend  a  Fenian  convention  called  by  the  Senators  to 
stop  the  second  raid  on  Canada  proposed  by  President 
John  O'Neill  of  the  Brotherhood.  I  got  passes  for  Mr. 
Gibbons  and  myself  from  New  York  to  Chicago  on  the 
New  York  Central  Road  through  Canada  to  Detroit, 
etc.  I  had  two  small  tin  boxes  containing  all  the  Fenian 
papers  for  the  convention,  brought  from  headquarters 
in  New  York.  Mr.  Gibbons  and  I  sat  together  in  the 
train.  After  we  crossed  Suspension  Bridge  at  Niagara 
Falls,  the  Custom  House  officers  were  coming  through 
the  cars  and  Mr.  Gibbons  became  uneasy  and  said  to  me 
that  we  would  be  arrested  because  of  the  Fenian  papers. 
I  quieted  him  by  showing  him  that  my  passes  were 
granted  because  of  the  New  York  Custom  House,  and 
that  the  boxes  would  not  be  examined.  And  so  it  hap 
pened,  when  the  Canadian  officers  reached  our  seat. 
However,  on  our  return,  we  did  not  pass  through  Canada 
as  we  were  watched  by  Pinkerton  detectives  from  Chi 
cago,  as  we  learned  from  private  sources.  James  Gib 
bons  was  a  true  Irish  patriot,  and  sacrificed  bis  printing 
business  for  the  cause  of  Ireland.  I  was  married  in  1870, 


32  STEEPLEJACK 

after  the  second  raid  on  Canada,  and  my  best  man  was 
Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke,  of  New  York  city,  who  has  since 
made  a  reputation  as  a  literary  man.  My  father-in-law 
is  still  living,  and  he  was  a  great  friend  of  James  Gibbons, 
who  was  frequently  entertained  at  his  residence  in 
Norwich,  Conn.  His  name  is  Michael  McQuirk.  Excuse 
this  screed.  Yours,  Richard  McCIoud." 

A  brave  old  friend.  I  hope  he  still  lives.  The  Clarke 
alluded  to  is  no  less  a  personage  than  J.  I.  C.  Clarke, 
formerly  editor  of  the  New  York  Journal,  poet,  orator, 
and  patriot.  James  Gibbons  was  of  medium  height,  as 
lithe  and  swift  as  an  Indian,  swarthy  of  skin,  his  eyes 
grey-blue,  his  hair  white  and  primly  parted,  his  expres 
sion  stern,  yet  his  glance  was  the  glance  of  a  visionary. 
He  was  a  visionary.  Another  steeplejack.  A  dreamer 
of  that  wildest  of  dreams,  the  political  separation  of 
Ireland  from  England.  He  spoke  with  eloquence.  He 
was  logical.  His  familiar  pose  was  that  of  a  statesman, 
his  right  hand  thrust  in  his  frock  coat.  I  think  about  his 
only  weakness  was  his  belief  that  he  resembled  his  politi 
cal  idol,  Henry  Clay.  There  was  sufficient  resemblance 
to  justify  this  belief.  He  was  a  man  of  character  and 
intellect.  No  Celtic  instability  there.  He  was  as  stub 
born  and  unyielding  in  his  faiths,  religious  and  patriotic, 
as  the  rock  of  Gibraltar.  With  his  brains  and  iron  will 
he  should  have  risen  to  eminence  in  any  profession, 
whether  the  law,  politics,  or  the  church.  I  think  that 
he  would  have  made  a  model  bishop.  But  he  preferred 
to  follow  his  dream,  a  beautiful  unselfish  dream,  all  the 
more  beautiful  because  it  was  unrealised.  He  was  ex 
ploited  by  a  conscienceless  crew.  With  his  imagination 
he  was  doomed  to  be  a  leader  of  forlorn  hopes.  Ah !  the 
Wild  Goose,  which  George  Moore  calls  the  symbol  of 


MY  GRANDFATHERS  33 

the  restless  Irish  temperament.  Despite  his  occasional 
chilliness  I  revere  the  memory  of  the  man,  though  I  shall 
never  forget  the  cruel  image  evoked  by  him.  My  hands 
were  my  petty  vanity.  I  was  called  a  "  fingersmith  " — 
good  old  Northern  Liberty  word — and  to  chop  off  those 
fingers  seemed  the  acme  of  the  horrible.  He  didn't 
mean  it.  It  was  his  heightened  and  Celtic  way  of  say 
ing  things.  James  Gibbons  was  a  fighter  born;  till  the 
day  of  his  death  he  fought  windmills,  and  like  the  noble 
Spanish  Don,  of  Cervantes,  he  never  knew  they  were 
windmills.  He  thought  it  was  for  humanity's  sake. 
And  it  was  for  suffering  humanity  that  he  fought  with 
out  a  thought  of  self,  or  ultimate  success.  Of  such  rare 
and  heroic  stuff  was  he  fashioned. 


Ill 

FAMILY  LIFE 

These  retrospective  hallucinations  would  be  incom 
plete  without  an  account  of  my  parents;  not  of  over 
whelming  interest  to  you,  but  it  is  to  me,  hence  its  in 
clusion  in  these  pages.  Stendhal  has  said  that  a  man's 
first  enemies  are  his  parents,  and  there  is  just  enough 
truth  in  the  paradox  to  lend  it  wings.  We  are  the 
product  of  inherited  tendencies,  to  give  to  an  unknown 
quantity  a  word;  we  are  usually  brought  up  to  believe 
what  our  fathers  and  mothers  believed.  They  are  our 
pacemakers  in  life.  Their  religious  faith  is  thrust  upon 
us  without  our  asking.  Their  prejudices,  social,  political, 
are  ours.  It  is  a  man  or  woman  of  character  who  breaks 
away  early  from  the  yoke,  supposing  that  it  is  a  yoke 
and  that  our  beliefs  are  sincere.  But  the  profound  im 
pressions  of  childhood  are  seldom  erased.  You  may 
fight  your  life  long  against  them,  and  uselessly.  I,  who 
am  not  of  what  is  euphemistically  called  the  religious 
temperament,  cannot  pass  a  church  without  saluting, 
and  often  entering.  Two  rituals  fascinate  me.  The 
Hebrew  and  the  Roman  Catholic.  In  Paris  I  went  to 
the  Greek  church,  and  occasionally  in  New  York.  The 
liturgical  chants  first  sung  when  mankind  was  in  its 
infancy,  before  Egypt  was,  and  perhaps  during  the 
Atlantean  golden  age,  are  echoed  in  the  KoI-Nidrei  of  the 
Day  of  Atonement  and  in  the  Dies  Irse  of  Passion  Week. 
The  call  of  the  Muezzin  from  the  minaret  of  the  Ma- 

34 


FAMILY  LIFE  35 


hometan  mosque  is  a  cry  that  has  sounded  down  the 
corridor  of  time  from  immemorial  days  and  lands  that 
vanished  in  the  last  glacial  epoch.  The  soul  of  man  is 
older  than  his  handiwork,  and  his  soul  has  always  aspired 
after  the  vision.  Totem  and  fetish,  tabu,  magic,  animism, 
and  idols  are  incorporated  in  the  solemn  church  services 
of  to-day.  Religious  emotion  is  as  old  as  humanity. 
Baudelaire  would  not  permit  his  friends  to  mock  his  gro 
tesque  wooden  idol,  because,  as  he  whispered,  a  god  might 
be  concealed  in  it.  The  idea  of  divinity  lurking  every 
where  was  one  of  the  charms  of  the  pagan  world.  Man 
was  accomplice  in  the  eternal  mysteries.  Religion,  that 
most  ancient  and  jealous  thing,  was  a  forest  peopled  by 
gods,  pluralistic  deities.  Some  men  outlive  this  feeling. 
I  cannot.  And  the  aesthetic  symbolism  of  the  Mass  is 
alluring.  But  suppose  that  it  would  have  been  pos 
sible  to  have  consulted  me  at  the  age  of  understand 
ing.  Would  I  have  subscribed  to  the  tenets  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church?  Or,  to  take  a  commoner  example, 
was  I  asked  whether  I  preferred  being  a  Democrat  or 
Republican?  Stendhal  is  not  so  far  wrong  in  his  as 
sumption,  though  in  his  personal  case  he  was  the  victim 
of  a  cruel,  illiberal  father,  and  a  nasty-tempered,  nagging 
aunt.  This  was  his  Aunt  Seraphina,  made  famous  in  his 
journals.  For  his  mother  he  entertained  a  feeling  that 
edged  the  idolatrous.  I  was  luckier  than  Henry  Beyle  of 
Grenoble.  My  parents  were  not  my  enemies.  To 
them  I  owe  everything. 

My  love  of  pictorial  art  was  fostered  at  home,  my 
passion  for  music  stimulated  in  a  musical  atmosphere. 
My  father  was  an  easy-going  man  with  a  waggish  dis 
position  and  a  large  fund  of  dry  humour,  which  found 
expression  in  pithy,  if  not  always  parliamentary  expres- 


36  STEEPLEJACK 

sions.  He  called  a  cat  a  cat,  as  they  say  in  Paris,  and 
sometimes  the  names  of  his  cats  evoked  a  shudder,  but 
the  shudder  always  resolved  itself  into  laughter.  Those 
shrewd,  crisp  vocables  born  somewhere  in  old  Kensing 
ton  hurt  our  ear  when  they  impinged  too  sharply  on  the 
tympani.  Yet  they  usually  disposed  of  a  variety  of 
upstart  pretension,  of  false  sentiment.  This  John  Hun- 
eker  hated  humbug.  His  hatred  was  not  of  the  bilious, 
corroding  kind,  but  gay,  sometimes  too  broad  in  speech, 
and  ever  salutary.  He  had  a  barytone  voice,  rich,  vi 
brant,  and,  like  little  Galli-Curci,  he  occasionally  sang 
off  the  pitch.  It  wasn't  as  much,  I  fear,  lack  of  method 
as  some  aural  defect.  Nevertheless,  he  was  in  great 
demand  at  social  gatherings  where  he  won  applause  by 
his  imitations  of  Italian  opera  singers.  My  memory  cells 
can  still  recall  his  singing  of  buffo  arias,  side-splitting  in 
their  innocent  fun-making.  Also  many  old-fashioned 
English  ballads.  "The  White  Squall/'  "My  Boyhood's 
Home,"  "The  Ivy  Green."  His  "Down  Among  the 
Dead  Men"  was  justly  esteemed.  It  would  have  won 
favour  from  Colonel  Newcome  in  any  Cave  of  Har 
mony.  And  those  caves  were  prevalent  in  the  early 
forties  of  the  past  century.  Philadelphia  boasted  a 
dozen,  a  combination  of  chop-house,  tavern,  and  concert- 
room.  There  was  a  chairman,  usually  some  well-known 
"booze-fighter"  and  all-round  "genial"  with  a  resonant 
voice,  or  else  some  actor.  Billy  Burton,  among  the  great 
est  of  Falstaffs,  like  the  elder  Hackett,  and  Edgar  Poe's 
employer  on  Burton  s  Magazine,  was  an  admirable  host. 
The  convivial  gentlemen  damned  the  King  and  drank 
toasts  to  the  memory  of  Washington.  "Black-Eyed 
Susan"  was  their  favourite  theatrical  entertainment, 
though,  when  it  came  to  "heavy"  tragedy,  then  the 


FAMILY  LIFE  37 


phalanx  turned  out  to  welcome  Edmund  as  well  as  the 
younger  Kean  or  the  elder  Booth. 

Many  a  time  I  have  listened  to  my  father's  stirring 
stories  of  the  Macready-Forrest  row.  He  espoused  the 
cause  of  the  English  actor,  principally  because  of  his  love 
of  fair  play.  Macready  was  badly  treated.  All  that 
Dickens  wrote  of  our  intolerance  and  rough  manners  was 
exemplified  in  the  Macready  affair.  Feeling  never  ran 
so  high  in  Philadelphia  as  it  did  in  New  York — witness 
the  Astor  Place  riots;  but  it  was  pretty  bad.  In  reality, 
my  father  considered  Edwin  Forrest  the  more  powerful 
actor  of  the  pair.  Macready,  he  said,  was  cold,  his  art 
cerebral.  If  Forrest  had  not  the  polish,  he  possessed 
dramatic  temperament.  How  he  could  thunder  in  the 
index,  whether  in  Othello,  Lear,  or  Metamora.  He  tore 
passions  to  shreds,  but  he  communicated  thrills  to  his 
audience.  He  was  before  my  time  as  an  actor,  but  I  saw 
him  once  at  his  home  in  North  Broad  Street.  With  a  lot  of 
boys  I  sat  on  his  brownstone  steps  of  a  warm  Sunday  af 
ternoon.  No  doubt  Mr.  Forrest  was  long-suffering  in  the 
matter,  for  suddenly,  to  our  dismay,  the  door  opened 
and  a  terrible-appearing  old  ogre  with  disordered  hair 
shouted  in  a  voice  that  might  have  been  heard  on  Girard 
Avenue:  "Get  out  of  here,  you  blankety,  blank,  blank, 
blank  !"  We  "got  out  of  there/'  and  swiftly.  Richelieu 
was  never  more  wrathful,  Lear  more  tragic. 

Of  the  elder  Booth  my  father  related  that  one  Sunday 
morning  on  Walnut  Street,  opposite  the  now  historical 
theatre,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  clattering  of 
hoofs  and  the  sound  of  many  footsteps.  A  crowd  swept 
around  Ninth  Street  following  a  horse  upon  which  sat, 
or  rather  crouched,  old  Booth,  who  faced  backward, 
holding  on  literally  for  dear  life  to  the  tail  of  the  animal. 


38  STEEPLEJACK 

It  was  one  of  the  accustomed  outbursts  of  the  great  actor, 
a  "uric-acid  storm,"  the  specialists  now  call  it.  The 
following  Monday  evening  he  played  a  Shakesperian 
character,  none  the  worse  for  his  experience.  There  were 
giants  in  those  days. 

Music,  while  never  a  profession  of  my  father's,  as  it 
was  of  my  grandfather,  played  a  pleasant  role  in  his  life. 
His  voice  and  amiable  personality  brought  him  into  the 
best  company  of  the  town.  He  belonged  to  the  Poe 
circle:  Judge  Conrad,  William  Burton,  John  Sartain, 
the  engraver  who  has  written  of  the  men  at  these  gather 
ings — Poe  himself,  Booth,  and  Pierce  Butler.  Judge 
Conrad  would  recite  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  a  way  that 
moved  Booth  to  tears.  My  father  would  sing  "As  I 
View  Now  Those  Scenes  so  Charming,"  from  "Sonnam- 
bula" — the  battle-horse  of  the  barytone  Badiali.  And  if 
Poe  was  not  too  sullen  or  melancholy  he  would  recite 
"The  Raven,"  and  freeze  the  spines  of  the  company. 
As  I  have  told  elsewhere,  my  father  confessed  that  he 
never  saw  Poe  the  worse  for  liquor  except  once,  and  then 
it  was  a  thimbleful  of  brandy  that  disturbed  his  equilib 
rium.  A  handsome,  dapper  little  man,  reported  my 
father  of  Poe's  person,  and  a  sad  reticent  man,  with  the 
fixed  glance  of  one  immersed  in  doleful  memories,  and 
an  eye  that  was  beautiful  in  colour  and  the  saddest  that 
he  ever  saw.  When  Edwin  Booth  played  Hamlet,  he 
looked  like  Poe,  I  was  informed;  not  a  physical  but  a 
spiritual  resemblance,  my  father  probably  meant. 

My  father  entertained  all  the  visiting  musical  celeb 
rities.  He  knew  Thalberg,  Louis  Moreau  Gottschalk, 
Vieuxtemps,  and  a  host  of  others.  Ole  Bull  went  around 
our  dining-table  on  his  thumbs,  his  feet  free  from  the 
floor.  He  was  an  athlete,  this  grand  old  Norwegian 


FAMILY   LIFE  39 


violinist,  who  looked  like  Liszt  or  the  enchanted  Merlin — 
as  pictured  by  Burne-Jones.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  char 
latan  in  his  old  age,  and  played  all  sorts  of  tricks  on  his 
magic  fiddle.  But  he  touched  the  hearts  of  his  audiences 
with  "Home  Sweet  Home,"  "Way  Down  Upon  the 
Suwanee  River,"  "Old  Dan  Tucker,"  with  his  reels,  jigs, 
and  once  in  a  while  a  Paganini  caprice.  He  never,  to 
use  a  homely  expression,  played  over  the  heads  of  the 
people.  There  was  his  secret.  Art  could  go  hang.  My 
father  heartily  approved  of  this  attitude.  Naturally  I 
did  not.  Art  for  me  was  cryptic,  else  it  was  not  art. 
Many  the  battle  we  had  on  this  not  very  subtle  question 
in  aesthetics.  Thalberg,  in  company  with  Madame 
Lagrange,  played  with  unqualified  success.  He  knew 
his  public  and  tickled  the  ears  of  the  groundlings  with 
his  fantasias  and  variations  on  popular  operatic  airs. 
The  prayer  from  Rossini's  "Moses  in  Egypt"  was  a 
favourite,  and  as  played  by  the  greatest  singer  on  the 
keyboard — Thalberg  had  the  mellowest  touch  among 
his  contemporaries — and  with  his  lyric  thumbs  he  in 
toned  the  melody.  He  had  studied  with  the  harpist, 
Parrish  Alvars,  who,  like  Bochsa,  also  a  harpist,  was  a 
visitor  to  America.  Arpeggios,  coupled  with  a  lovely 
touch  in  cantilena  and  an  impeccable  technique  made 
this  virtuoso  the  sensation  of  his  time.  A  natural  son  of 
Prince  Dietrichstein,  an  Austrian  magnate,  by  a  cele 
brated  Italian  opera  singer,  Sigismund  Thalberg  was  not 
only  rich  but  an  aristocrat  born.  When  he  appeared 
my  mother  sat  in  the  audience  an  interested  spectator 
for  the  reason  that  her  husband  was  on  the  stage  and 
figured  in  the  programme.  "Why,  there's  John!"  she 
exclaimed  as  the  pianist  emerged.  The  resemblance  is 
striking.  I  have  the  old  photographs  of  both  men. 


40  STEEPLEJACK 

Mutton  -  chop  whiskers  were  in  vogue  with  high  neck 
cloths,  and  watch  chains  that  wound  serpentine  fashion 
about  the  wearer's  waistcoat.  And  like  Thalberg,  my 
father  was  slightly  bald,  ox-eyed,  and  aquiline  of  visage. 
At  one  concert  Gottschalk,  fresh  from  Paris,  a  pupil  of 
Camille  Stamaty  (he  never  studied  with  Chopin,  as  bi 
ographers  say,  but  he  played  for  Chopin  and  heard  that 
marvellous  Pole  play;  the  reason  I  speak  by  the  card  is 
because  I  asked  a  pupil  of  Chopin's,  Georges  Mathias, 
in  Paris,  and  he  assured  me  that  Gottschalk,  then  con 
sidered  a  brilliant  talent,  was  never  under  the  tuition 
of  Chopin),  with  Thalberg  played  the  elder  pianist's 
fantasia  on  themes  from  "Nor ma"  arranged  for  two 
pianos,  and  my  father  remembered  the  difference  of  the 
scale-passages;  Thalberg's  scales  were  a  string  of  pearls, 
the  scales  of  the  New  Orleans  virtuoso  were  glittering 
star-dust.  Louis  Gottschalk,  with  whose  family  I  was 
intimate,  had  a  more  dramatic  temperament  than  Thal 
berg,  who  was  impassive,  and  a  believer  in  Baudelaire's 
line:  "Je  hais  le  mouvement,  qui  deplace  les  lignes." 
Linear  his  art,  rather  than  colourful,  yet  his  touch  was 
golden.  In  Gottschalk's  playing  there  was  something 
Lisztian  and  diabolic. 

I  was  taken  to  many  concerts  and  operas  by  my 
father,  and  when  he  didn't  take  me  I  sneaked  away  and 
paid  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  to  hear  singers  and  pianists 
and  violinists  who,  by  any  reasonable  standard  of  com 
parison,  would  be  worth  ten  dollars  to  listen  to  in  1919. 
There  is  no  Carlotta  Patti;  there  may  be  equals  of 
Vieuxtemps,  but  not  in  grace  or  finesse,  and  I  defy  you 
to  find  me  a  second  Anton  Rubinstein.  In  1869,  I  think, 
Carlotta  Patti  sang  the  "Queen  of  the  Night"  in  Mozart's 
"Magic  Flute"  at  the  Academy.  In  the  cast  were 


FAMILY  LIFE  41 


Formes,  Hablemann,  and  the  formidable  basso  Herr- 
man.  The  opera  was  sung  in  Italian.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  prima  donna  who  limped  down  a  "practicable" 
staircase  to  the  footlights  and  then  showered  on  our 
delighted  ears  a  cascade  of  dazzling  roulades.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  her  F  in  altissimo,  clear,  round,  and 
frosty.  She  was  a  cold  singer,  the  very  timbre  of  her 
voice  was  icy  when  compared  with  the  warmer,  richer  or 
gan  of  her  more  celebrated  sister,  Adelina.  But  Carlotta 
was  the  more  brilliant  of  the  two,  an  incomparable 
coloratura  singer,  whose  memory  has  not  been  dis 
turbed  even  by  lima  di  Murska,  Sembrich,  or  Melba. 
Carlotta  visited  us  later  with  Theodore  Ritter,  a  polished 
pianist,  and  for  the  last  time  in  company  with  her  hus 
band,  a  violoncellist,  De  Munck,  by  name.  This  was 
during  the  decade  of  the  eighties.  The  third  sister, 
Amalia  Patti-Strakosch  was  a  contralto.  I  never  heard 
her  sing.  The  only  son  by  Caterina  Barili's  marriage 
with  Salvatore  Patti  was  Carlo  Patti,  a  violinist,  who 
married  in  1859  the  actress,  Effie  Germon.  My  father 
praised  Caterina  Barili  as  a  dramatic  soprano.  By  her 
first  marriage  she  had  the  two  Barilis,  Antonio  and 
Ettore,  both  operatic  singers,  the  last  named  a  famous 
Rigoletto.  He  became  choir-master  of  St.  John's  Church, 
and  taught  many  singers.  His  son,  Alfredo  Barili,  went 
to  Cologne,  where  he  studied  under  Ferdinand  Hiller,  the 
composer-pianist  (oh !  Hiller's  F  sharp  minor  Concerto, 
how  I  loathe  your  smug  Mendelssohnian  melodies,  your 
prim  passage-work);  and  in  Paris  with  Theodore  Ritter, 
then  a  friend  of  his  Aunt  Carlotta's  (once  at  a  Turkish 
bath  the  frolicsome  Alfredo  turned  a  hose  on  his  pre 
ceptor  with  consequences  too  awful  to  relate.  I  think 
his  aunt  stopped  his  spending-money  for  a  month).  He 


42  STEEPLEJACK 

is  now  in  Atlanta.  A  younger  brother,  Henry,  is  a 
singing  teacher.  Alfredo  Barili  was  patient  and  friendly 
enough  to  give  me  piano  lessons,  and  made  a  prediction 
that  came  true  when  he  assured  me  that  I  would  never 
become  a  pianist  worth  hearing. 

The  Academy  of  Music  has  not  changed  much  since 
the  days  of  Carlotta  Patti,  Brignoli,  Annie  Louise  Gary 
—now  Mrs.  Raymond,  and  with  few  exceptions  the 
greatest  contralto  of  them  all — Minnie  Hauk — my  first 
Carmen — Clara  Louise  Kellogg,  Nilsson,  Adelina  Patti, 
and  Campanini.  Colonel  Bonnafon  was  kind  enough  to 
show  me  the  green  room  where  hang  portraits  of  Carlotta 
Patti,  Brignoli,  Christine  Nilsson,  Campanini,  Salvini, 
Charlotte  Cushman,  and  others.  The  old  chandelier 
still  hangs  in  the  auditorium,  though  the  frescoes  are 
new.  Only  the  ventilation-plant  and  the  tablets  in  the 
lobby,  to  the  memory  of  Michael  Cross,  Charles  Jar- 
vis,  and  Fritz  Scheel,  made  me  conscious  of  the  pass 
ing  years.  A  half  century  before  I  had  declaimed  with 
schoolboy  fervour  from  the  historical  stage,  some  piece 
or  other  at  the  commencement  exercises  of  my  school, 
Roth's  Military  Academy.  I  then  and  there  made  a 
blighting  failure  as  an  incipient  elocutionist  and  a  bud 
ding  actor.  But  when  I  came  out  in  Locust  Street  last 
year  and  saw  Sautter's  where  as  a  lad  I  doted  on  the 
ice  cream  and  cake,  the  illusion  of  the  stability  of  youth 
was  renewed.  In  New  York  a  week  suffices  to  destroy 
a  landmark;  in  Philadelphia  the  tone  of  time  longer 
endures. 


FAMILY  LIFE  43 


BLACK    AND    WHITE 

When  in  1 894  my  father's  collection  of  black  and  white 
was  sold  at  New  York  the  catalogue  enumerated  several 
thousand  pieces:  mezzotints,  line-engravings,  etchings, 
and  lithographs.  It  was  not  a  large,  but  an  important 
gathering.  AH  schools  were  represented.  Quality  ruled. 
Knowing  that  with  his  means  he  could  not  indulge  in  the 
luxury  of  a  gallery  of  paintings,  he  wisely  "went  in  for" 
engravings.  That  collection  not  only  educated  my  eye, 
educated  me  in  the  various  schools,  but  it  gave  me  the 
first  aesthetic  thrill  of  my  life.  The  walls  of  our  house 
were  hung  with  choice  specimens  of  the  gravers'  art. 
I  ate  my  meals  facing  an  old  mezzotint  of  John  Martin, 
"The  Fall  of  Nineveh,"  a  huge  plate,  coarse  as  to  tech 
nique,  disorderly  in  composition,  yet  revealing  an  imagi 
nation  monstrous,  perhaps,  though  none  the  less  stirring. 
Both  Charles  Lamb  and  Macaulay  have  commented 
upon  the  grandiose  visions  of  the  eccentric  English  mez- 
zotinter.  Melodramatic,  violent,  morbid,  these  same 
visions  gripped  all  England  for  a  brief  period  during  the 
early  Victorian  days.  Not  a  colourist,  the  designs  of 
John  Martin  show  him  to  have  been  a  Turner,  a  rebours. 
His  predilection  for  biblical  and  Miltonic  subjects  was 
the  outcome  of  a  mind  deeply  saturated  by  religion. 
His  vast  temples,  his  multitudes  in  sackcloth  and  ashes, 
the  horrific  happenings  must  have  endeared  him  to  Poe 
as  they  did  to  Wordsworth.  However,  he  was  not  a 
first-class  mezzotinter.  In  none  of  his  work  is  to  be 
found  the  velvety  tone  of  Richard  Earlom,  or  the  rich  col 
our  suggestions  of  Valentine  Green.  Bituminous  blacks 
and  glaring  whites,  his  mezzotints  are  not  unlike  his  paint 
ings.  But  their  glory  is  their  vivid  dream-architecture 
as  is  the  same  in  Piranesi's  plates. 


44  STEEPLEJACK 

In  our  living-room,  then  called  the  sitting-room,  there 
was  a  cabinet  devoted  to  the  collection,  a  small  chamber 
filled  with  numerous  portfolios,  and  carefully  arranged 
as  to  schools.  It  was  my  father's  principal  pleasure  to 
look  through  his  plates,  rearranging  them,  weeding  out 
mediocre  specimens,  while  vaunting  to  me  the  beauties 
of  a  Goltzius,  an  Edelinck,  or  Drevet,  a  J.  R.  Smith 
copperplate,  a  Sharpe,  or  a  WooIIett.  Stately  examples 
of  the  French  and  English  schools  were  framed,  and 
were  literally  "lived  with."  No  especial  school  was 
favoured.  Lucas  Van  Leyden  and  Albrecht  Diirer  were 
to  be  found,  as  was  the  grey-haired  Man,  or  the  large 
Bervic  plate  of  Louis  XVI.  Landscapes  after  Claude, 
fruit  and  flower  pieces  by  Huysums  were  there.  Better 
training  for  the  student's  eye  I  don't  know  than  a  col 
lection  of  black  and  white.  The  emotional  glamour  of 
colour  is  absent,  though  its  symbols  are  suggested;  the 
very  skeleton  of  composition  is  bared,  and  the  art  of 
design,  abstract  and  concrete,  may  be  learned.  What 
long  happy  summer  afternoons  we  spent,  my  father  and 
I,  as  remote  from  the  actual  as  if  we  had  been  in  the 
moon.  At  least  once  a  week  old  man  Bonfield,  as  he 
was  familiarly  called,  would  drop  in  and  salute  us  in  his 
bluff  English  manner.  Bonfield  was  a  marine  painter 
of  excellent  talent  and  training.  He  patterned  after  the 
Dutch  marine  painters,  Vandervelde,  in  particular.  He 
loved  Constable  and  Turner.  He  could  render  with  a 
broad,  flowing  brush  the  rhythms  of  water  and  clouds. 
He  helped  to  form  my  father's  taste  in  engraving.  Kep- 
pel  was  another.  He  carried  prints  from  New  York  to 
his  various  clients  in  Philadelphia.  About  1850  mezzo 
tints  and  steel  plates  were  easier  to  buy  than  now;  also 
etchings,  for  then  there  was  no  craze  over  signed  exam- 


FAMILY   LIFE  45 


pies.  That  phase  evolved  later.  The  consequence  was 
that  at  what  would  be  ridiculous  prices  to-day,  my  father 
acquired  all  sorts  of  plates,  brilliant,  bad,  and  indifferent. 
As  his  knowledge  increased  he  became  wary,  and  would  ac 
cept  only  proofs,  before-all-Ietters.  His  etchings  were  his 
pride.  Rembrandt  largely  figured,  but  not  Whistler, 
for  the  good  reason  that  he  was  not  then  an  etcher.  I 
doubt  if  he  ever  appreciated  the  subtle  needle  of  James 
the  Butterfly,  although  he  had  acquired  some  splendid 
plates  of  Whistler's  brother-in-law,  then  known  as  Dr. 
Seymour  Haden.  When  this  accomplished  craftsman 
visited  Philadelphia  and  lectured  in  the  small  hall  of  the 
Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts,  I  attended  the  affair  and  re 
member  the  florid  complexion  of  the  artist  rather  than 
his  words  of  wisdom. 

This  was  about  the  time  that  Fortuny's  "Gamblers" 
was  shown  at  the  Union  League  Club,  and  its  price, 
seventeen  thousand  dollars,  was  mentioned  with  awe. 
Henry  C.  Gibson  was  buying  Cabanel  and  Bouguereau 
then,  and  I  don't  suppose  he  had  eyes  for  the  superior  art 
of  the  great  Spaniard.  Luckily  the  Academy  owns  one 
sterling  picture,  "View  in  a  Spanish  City,  Sevilla."  A 
few  years  afterwards  I  saw  the  Fortunys  of  the  Stewart 
collection  at  Paris,  especially  the  almost  miraculous 
"Choice  of  a  Model" — which  in  this  decadent  epoch  of 
muddy  colour,  lumpy  modelling,  and  freakish  design 
would  be  patronised  by  myopic  youth.  I  have  paid  a 
tiny  tribute  to  his  genius  in  "Promenades  of  an  Impres 
sionist."  "The  Gamblers,"  to  be  truthful,  didn't  make 
as  much  of  an  impression  on  me  at  that  time  as  Benjamin 
West's  apocalyptic  "Death  on  the  Pale  Horse,"  still  hung 
in  the  Academy.  I  realise  now  the  overwhelming  su 
periority  of  John  Martin  in  the  matter  of  invention 


46  STEEPLEJACK 

when  compared  with  the  more  successful  Quaker  medi 
ocrity. 

Those  summer  afternoons  spent  with  our  collection 
set  my  mind  wandering  on  a  dozen  different  roads.  It 
was  the  hub  of  the  wheel,  of  which  the  spokes  were  arch 
aeology,  architecture,  history,  foreign  languages,  music, 
and  what-not,  all  growing  out  of  the  numerous  subjects 
dealt  with  by  the  artists.  I  verily  believe  my  first 
longing  for  foreign  lands  and  travel  was  born  among 
these  etched  and  engraved  plates.  The  Centennial  Ex 
position  of  1876  completed  the  victory  over  my  inborn 
timidity  and  aversion  from  strangers.  The  wheel  came 
full  circle  in  1878,  when  I  ran  away — with  my  parents' 
connivance — to  Paris. 

But  I  mustn't  forget  that  other  collection  of  prints 
around  the  corner  on  Logan  Square,  the  truly  imposing 
gallery  of  James  L.  Claghorn.  Sunday  afternoon  was 
the  chosen  time  for  the  gathering  of  the  clans.  Then 
Mr.  Claghorn  was  in  his  glory.  An  enormous  man  with 
abundant  white  hair,  a  smooth-shaven  face,  ecclesiastical 
in  its  mixture  of  benignity  and  shrewdness,  large  blue  eyes 
and  a  cordial  manner,  made  the  personality  of  this  con 
noisseur  an  agreeable  one.  To  me,  a  slender  half-scared 
boy,  he  was  very  cordial.  I  helped  to  shift  portfolios, 
lift  out  prints  for  his  inspection,  and  doing  this  for  some 
years,  I  gained  more  than  a  glimpse  of  this  magnificent 
collection,  which,  when  compared  to  our  modest  portfo 
lios  was  as  the  sun  is  to  a  star  of  the  tenth  magnitude. 
AH  the  world  worth  knowing  in  Philadelphia  passed 
through  the  Claghorn  galleries,  and  also  many  foreign 
celebrities.  James  Claghorn  was  that  rare  and  rapidly 
vanishing  specimen  of  humanity,  a  merchant-prince.  The 
collection  was  sold  after  his  death  to  Mr.  Garrett,  of  Bal- 


FAMILY  LIFE  47 


timore,  and  is  now  housed  at  Princeton  College.  Our 
plates  when  sold  did  not  fetch  a  big  price  owing  to  va 
rious  reasons.  My  father's  ventures  in  oil  pictures  were 
confined  entirely  to  the  American  school,  Philadelphians 
preferred.  Peter  F.  RothermePs  "  Trial  of  Fabiola"- 
after  Cardinal  Newman's  novel — portraits  by  William 
Hewitt,  and  Isaac  Williams,  marines  by  George  Bonfield, 
snow-pieces  by  his  son,  Van  Bonfield,  a  fruit-piece  by 
George  Ord,  then  a  well-known  still-life  painter,  a  head 
by  Thomas  Sully,  a  supposed  Gilbert  Stuart,  a  contested 
Teniers — which  I  own — and  a  dozen  other  paintings  by 
men  of  minor  talent  all  testified  to  my  parent's  faith  in 
native  talent.  Some  of  the  artists  were  constant  visitors : 
Peter  F.  Rothermel,  well  known  for  his  "  Battle  of  Gettys 
burg,"  the  elder  Waugh,  W.  T.  Richards,  Hamilton,  the 
marine  painter,  William  Hewitt,  Bonfield,  and  Isaac 
Williams,  Peter  Moran,  John  Sartain,  Dr.  W.  P.  Baker, 
these  with  William  Dougherty,  of  Girard  Avenue,  a  col 
lector  of  prints  and  a  man  of  taste,  usually  figured  at  our 
Sunday-night  gatherings.  Thomas  Sully,  the  portrait- 
painter,  was  a  rarer  caller.  Hewitt  was  a  born  mimic, 
and  I  can  still  hear  him  with  my  father  sing  an  old  song, 
"Paul  and  Silas  Went  to  Jail."  It  sounded  like  a  travesty 
of  a  darky  camp-meeting  "spiritual."  Rothermel,  tall 
and  drily  sarcastic,  seldom  opened  his  thin  lips;  Isaac 
Williams  was,  like  Hokusai,  an  old  man  mad-about- 
painting.  He  was  the  theoriser  of  the  group.  He  had 
a  technical  treatment  ready  for  every  pictorial  subject, 
but  it  wasn't  original.  Reynolds  for  children,  Gainsbor 
ough  for  young  women,  for  male  heads,  Rembrandt,  for 
sacred  subjects,  Raphael  or  Correggio  —  don't  smile. 
Those  were  the  days  of  Raphael  worship,  of  Correggio 
idolatry.  Velasquez  was  unknown,  as  was  Vermeer,  but 


STEEPLEJACK 


Murillo  and  Ostade — Ah  !  What  marvellous  artists.  The 
pre-Raphaelitic  group  was  not  known,  and  the  school  of 
1830,  the  Barbizon  men,  had  not  come  into  its  own. 
Realism  was  abhorred,  Sully,  Peale,  and  Gilbert  Stuart 
most  admired.  The  growing  vogue  of  Bouguereau,  Cab- 
anel,  Lefebvre  was  deplored;  too  much  nudity  for  the 
prudish  public;  but  Gerome  was  applauded  to  the  skies, 
Gerome  and  Meissonier.  "The  Duel  in  the  Snow,"  litho 
graphed  by  Gerome,  after  his  own  design,  was  popular. 
And  there  was  a  rumour  from  Parisian  ateliers  that  two 
portraitists,  Carolus  Duran  and  Leon  Bonnat,  were  con 
sidered  promising.  It  all  sounds  before  the  deluge, 
doesn't  it?  Yet  I  have  heard  fierce  discussions  over  chiaro 
scuro,  as  it  was  called  then;  over  the  disposition  of  the 
model — usually  a  studio  mannikin — over  complementary 
colours,  over  the  arrangement  of  a  palette,  yes,  the  very 
problems  that  were  agitating  a  certain  small  circle  in 
Paris;  the  Impressionists,  Manet — who  was  not,  strictly 
speaking,  one  of  the  group,  though  in  the  revolt  against 
the  Institute — Monet,  Pissarro,  Sisley,  and  the  rest.  In 
1867  the  Salon  of  the  Refused  was  opened  through  the 
influence  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III.  That  was  about 
the  period  when  the  new  and  heretical  theories  had  been 
wafted  across  to  the  United  States.  Not  one  of  the  art 
ists  I  mention  had  a  good  word  for  the  innovators,  but 
they  discussed  them,  not  by  name,  but  their  theories, 
and  you  don't  discuss  a  corpse.  Impressionism  is  no  new 
thing.  Nevertheless,  the  Philadelphia  artists  based  their 
theories  on  a  sound  foundation;  what  they  didn't  see 
was  that  tradition  often  proves  a  traitor,  when  you  don't 
play  off  your  own  bat.  For  them  the  fact  that  Rem 
brandt  handled  lights  and  shadows  in  a  masterful  way 


FAMILY   LIFE  49 


meant  complete  surrender  to  his  personal  methods.     Any 
deviation  spelled  anarchy. 

I  was  allowed  to  "stay  up"  a  little  later  than  custom 
ary  on  Sunday  nights.  As  vividly  as  this  morning  I 
remember  sitting  on  William  Hewitt's  knee,  and  after 
he  had  crooned  some  quaint  tune,  the  conversation 
touched  on  lighthouses;  of  all  subjects  in  the  world. 
Finally  the  Eddystone  light  was  reached.  What  was 
the  secret  of  its  resistance  to  the  sea  and  storms  after 
several  failures  in  building,  no  one  knew.  Full  of  the 
subject,  for  I  had  been  reading  the  history  of  Plymouth, 
I  boldly  spoke  up:  "I  know."  My  father  looked  at  me 
as  if  at  a  crazy  person.  "You  know?  How  do  you 
know?"  he  asked.  "Let  the  boy  alone,"  said  Bill 
Hewitt.  "How  do  you  come  to  know,  Jim,  about  the 
Eddystone  lighthouse?"  I  needed  no  further  encour 
agement:  "I  know,  because  John  Smeaton  dovetailed 
the  stones  when  he  rebuilt  it."  A  roar  of  approbation 
greeted  this  tour-de-force  of  memory — I  wasn't  more 
than  seven — and  my  father's  eyes  twinkled.  He  was 
evidently  proud  and  pleased.  Polonius-Iike  he  remarked: 
"Dovetailed  is  good."  The  word  enchanted  me.  I 
repeated  it  for  days:  dovetailed,  dovetailed.  I  was 
as  bad  as  Flaubert  with  his  infernal  "Taprabona,"  or  as 
the  old  woman  with  her  blessed  word,  "Mesopotamia." 
I  can't  hear  "dovetailed"  pronounced  to-day  without 
seeing  the  smoke-filled  room,  its  walls  plastered  with 
engravings,  the  cheery  voices  of  old  friends,  my  father's 
kindly,  bearded  ruddy  face.  Dovetailed;  dovetailed. 
Even  at  that  early  age  I  was  spouting  words  of  whose 
meanings  I  was  often  ignorant.  And  how  many  did  I 


50  STEEPLEJACK 

not  mispronounce !  I  loved  yEsop's  Fables  and  once  I 
quoted  to  my  sister:  "The  mountains  that  were  in 
labour";  but  I  pronounced  the  last  word  with  the  accent 
on  the  last  syllable,  and  was  rewarded  with  shrieks  of 
laughter.  I  had  fancied  that  "labour,"  like  Labrador, 
was  a  land  somewhere  in  the  Arctic  Zone.  That  the 
phrase  indicated  the  birth  of  a  mouse  did  not  seem  so 
interesting  nor  exotic. 


IV 

MY    MOTHER 

Tell  me  of  your  mother  and  I'll  tell  you  of  yourself. 
As  a  man  speaks  of  his  mother  so  you  may  estimate  his 
character.  Arthur  Schopenhauer  was  right  when  he 
said  that  from  his  father  a  man  derived  his  will,  but  from 
his  mother  he  inherited  his  intellect.  The  exception 
proves  the  case;  and  while  we  have  traversed  many 
psychological  leagues  since  Schopenhauer,  in  the  main 
we  adhere  to  his  theory.  He  only  wrote  of  genius,  but 
his  idea  holds  good  for  the  average  man  and  woman. 
The  few  wits  I  possess  came  to  me  from  my  mother,  who 
was  a  woman  of  brains,  above  all,  of  character.  Before 
twenty  she  was  the  principal  of  a  high  school  somewhere 
in  Kensington.  She  saw  men  shot  in  the  streets  during 
the  Know-Nothing  riots  of  1844,  and  also  the  burning 
of  St.  Augustine's  Church  on  Fourth  Street.  She  always 
had  the  faith,  but  these  outrages  on  the  Irish  and  on  her 
religion  crystallised  this  faith.  She  was  not  a  theologian 
in  petticoats — a  more  detestable  thing  than  a  female 
politician — nor  was  she  a  propagandist,  like  her  father, 
James  Gibbons.  But  she  was  consistently  pious  and  a 
practical  churchwoman.  Her  erudition  was  notable. 
In  matters  of  theology  I  never  met  her  superior  among 
her  sex.  I  was  inducted  into  the  noble  literature  of 
Bossuet  and  Pere  Lacordaire,  early  in  my  teens.  The 
Paroles  d'un  Croyant  of  the  unhappy  Abbe  Lamennais  I 
was  not  permitted  to  read  at  such  a  tender  age,  though 

51 


52  STEEPLEJACK 

my  mother  spoke  of  him  in  pitying  terms.  Revolt 
against  Rome  meant  to  her  revolt  against  life.  Yet  she 
was  not  a  bigot.  She  did  not  condemn  to  the  ever 
lasting  bonfire  dissenters  from  her  faith. 

My  Aunt  Susan  Gibbons,  a  character  who  would  have 
intrigued  Dickens,  made  up  for  my  mother's  tolerance. 
"He  will  roast  in  hell  after  death,  and  the  devil  will 
baste  his  ribs,"  she  would  exclaim,  to  the  intense  delight 
of  the  children.  She  not  only  put  the  enemies  of  Mother 
Church  into  the  darkest  and  deepest  circles  of  the  fiery 
pit,  but  also  the  objects  of  her  personal  animosity.  Like 
her  father  she  loved  politics.  A  Democrat  had  a  chance 
for  heaven,  no  matter  his  habits;  a  Republican,  however, 
was  doomed.  No  appeal.  Irrevocable.  And  then  the 
dear,  irritable  spinster  would  go  into  the  kitchen — where 
she  was  fervently  hated  by  our  two  Irish  girls  as  an  in 
terloper  and  a  spoil-sport — and  fry  oysters  as  appetising 
as  Finelli's,  fabricate  a  chicken-salad  which  reached  our 
very  youthful  souls,  and  Oh !  she  baked  biscuits  which 
melted  on  the  tongue.  What  matters  a  woman's  the 
ology  if  she  cooks  like  an  angel?  Aunt  Sue  did  thus 
cook,  but  she  paddled  us  like  a  devil.  She  made  herself 
our  mother,  ex-officio.  She  was  not  without  a  touch  of 
spinster  acidity,  and  her  occasional  cruelties  were  Celtic. 
She  had  native  humour.  Celtic  also  the  voicing  of  her 
sentiments  concerning  Republicans,  Protestants,  and 
people  who  didn't  subscribe  to  the  tenets  of  Fenianism. 
She  was  a  family  institution,  this  aunt  of  ours,  and  when 
a  nurse  was  demanded,  who  could  nurse  the  sick  with 
such  tenderness?  But  when  you  were  safely  launched 
on  the  route  of  convalescence  she  put  off  all  such  weak 
nesses  as  affection  or  solicitude  for  your  well-being,  and 
became  her  old  self:  witty,  sharp  of  tongue,  and  the  im- 


MY  MOTHER  53 


placable  antagonist  of  anyone  who  dared  to  combat  her 
prejudices.  Forty  years  she  sparred  at  the  table  with 
her  brother-in-law,  my  father,  and  as  her  tongue  was 
more  nimble,  her  wit  more  agile,  her  vocabulary  larger, 
she  generally  got  the  best  of  him.  It  was  all  in  a  vein 
of  good  temper,  yet  the  sparks  flew,  especially  if  the  old 
man  ventured  on  any  allusion  to  the  clergy's  love  of 
even  cheer.  Then  Aunt  Sue  would  bristle.  According 
to  her,  all  priests  were  ascetic.  "Like  Father  McBIank," 
would  interrupt  my  father,  alluding  to  a  concrete  case, 
a  fat,  jolly  priest,  with  a  healthy  appetite  and  thirst, 
God  bless  his  memory!  What  fulminations  ensued. 
"John  Huneker,  the  Old  One  will  surely  get  your  car 
cass/'  My  father  would  hum  "Lillibulero,"  and  the 
incident  was  closed.  But  as  a  teacher  of  the  young  she 
had  few  rivals.  Like  my  mother,  she  began  as  a  public- 
school  teacher,  and  while  her  intelligence  was  as  acute 
as  her  sister's  she  had  not  the  emotional  depth  nor  the 
stability  of  character;  nevertheless,  she  had  the  art  of 
imparting  knowledge,  and  many  girls,  now  matrons  in 
this  city,  will  recall  her  school  on  Spruce  Street,  where 
she  leased  a  floor  in  the  house  of  the  late  Dr.  Brinton. 

A  mother's  influence  should  be  like  gentle  rain  on  the 
sandy  soil  of  youthful  egotism;  a  boy  at  twelve  has 
portioned  out  the  globe  in  his  fancy.  Life  is  before  him 
and  it  is  created  for  his  pleasure  alone.  Anyone  who 
comes  between  him  and  his  nascent  desires  is  a  rash 
intruder.  Why  can't  we  accept  the  wisdom  of  our  elders' 
judgment,  when  we  are  cautioned  not  to  fly  from  the 
nest  before  our  wings  are  full-fledged?  The  answer  is 
to  be  seen  in  the  actions  of  any  girl  or  boy  with  a  par 
ticle  of  self-assertion,  and,  as  a  rule,  young  America  has 
more  than  its  share.  Because  each  soul  must  traverse 


54  STEEPLEJACK 

the  dolorous  path  of  experience  for  itself.  There  is  life 
knocking  at  the  doors  of  our  senses  bidding  us  come  out 
and  enjoy  its  multifarious  pleasures.  Always  pleasure, 
never  pain,  it  matters  little  if  our  mother  bids  us  beware. 
She  knows  the  bitterness  of  the  dregs.  She  recognises 
the  illusions.  And  yet  we  fly  in  the  face  of  her  admoni 
tions.  If  we  didn't  we  shouldn't  live.  My  mother  who 
had  sounded  the  heights  and  depths,  knew  that  children 
provisionally  accept  advice.  She  had  mastered  the  art 
of  holding  on  and  letting  go,  which  is  the  secret  of  wisdom. 
So  I  had  a  pretty  long  rope  to  hang  on.  I  can't  recall 
a  single  instance  of  a  blow  from  my  father.  He  would 
fume,  mildly  speak  harsh  things  when  I  played  truant, 
but  in  five  minutes  the  sea  would  be  serenely  smooth; 
besides  I  took  advantage  of  his  weakness.  Boys  are 
almost  as  cunning  as  girls  in  this  respect.  My  sister 
Mary  had  only  to  play  the  theme  of  the  A  flat  Sonata 
of  Beethoven  (opus  26)  and  she  could  wheedle  anything 
from  my  male  parent.  I  took  a  lesson  from  her  book. 
I  discoursed  of  Raphael  Morghen  and  his  engraved  Ma 
donna,  or  of  the  joyous  landscapes  of  Claude  Lorraine. 
All  was  forgiven. 

But  my  mother  was  never  trapped  by  such  obvious 
subterfuges.  Her  perception  of  right  and  wrong  had  the 
incisive  clarity  of  an  etching  by  Meryon.  Her  conscience, 
safest  of  monitors  in  her  case,  would  not  allow  her  to 
juggle  with  the  moralities.  She  earnestly  wished  that 
I  should  enter  the  clerical  life.  Early  she  realised  the 
hopelessness  of  her  wish.  I  hadn't  the  vocation.  Nor 
did  the  well-meant  promptings  of  some  of  the  sisters  at 
Broad  and  Columbia  Avenue,  deter  her  from  seeing  the 
cold  truth.  This  old  convent  was  my  delight  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  There  I  was  petted  by  Mother  Frances  de 


MY  MOTHER  55 


Sales,  and  Mother  Augustine,  and  I  always  promised, 
like  the  meek  little  humbug  I  was,  to  become  a  priest 
when  I  grew  up.  This  valiant  declaration  was  rewarded 
with  candy.  I  liked  candy  then.  I  also  liked  to  play 
in  the  nuns'  garden.  The  Sisters  of  Mercy  is  an  order 
whose  rule  appealed  to  me,  as  did  the  Jesuit's.  I  have 
a  weakness  for  the  Jesuit  order,  not  because  it  is  worldly 
— that  venerable  delusion — but  because  its  members  are 
masters  of  the  gentle  arts,  and,  whatever  else  they  may 
be,  they  are  liberal  in  spirit.  The  Sisters  of  Mercy  are, 
among  other  things,  a  teaching  order.  They  know  the 
souls  of  their  pupils.  Now  I  am  what  an  old  and  very 
dear  priest  calls  "a  hickory  Catholic,"  yet  I  love  the 
odour  of  incense,  the  mystic  bells,  the  music,  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  altar,  above  all  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
church.  There  is  a  world  of  thought  suspended  like 
Mahomet's  coffin  above  the  quotidian  existence  of  re 
ligion.  It  is  not  free  to  everyone,  nor  is  it  an  arcanum 
forbidden  all  but  the  few.  Its  literature  had  penetrated 
my  very  bones  when  boys  of  my  age  were  playing  mar 
bles.  No  wonder  some  of  our  ecclesiastical  friends  saw 
in  me  the  making  of  a  fervidly  pious  young  priest.  But 
some  did  not.  Father  Boudreaux,  a  French  priest  and 
author,  did  not;  nor  did  the  Reverend  Dr.  Kent  Stone, 
a  convert,  noted  for  his  unction  and  oratory.  He  saw  a 
row  of  books  on  my  table  and  shook  his  head.  He  had 
his  misgivings  when  he  noted  the  four  volumes  of  Charles 
Baudelaire — the  critic  Baudelaire,  and  there  are  few  to 
surpass  him  in  clairvoyance,  interested  me  as  much  as 
the  poet — the  essays  of  Walter  Pater,  Matthew  Arnold, 
the  poems  of  Swinburne,  Rossetti,  of  Poe  and  Gautier. 
Rabelais,  Montaigne,  Goethe,  Aquinas,  and  Emerson  had 
their  place,  and  Schopenhauer,  and  there  were  sermons 


56  STEEPLEJACK 

by  Lacordaire,  whose  harmonious  French  I  savoured,  and 
Bourdaloue;  Madame  de  Swetchine  and  Eugenie  de 
Guerin  were  there.  I  read  the  sister  before  I  saw  the 
pantheistic  prose-poem  of  her  brother  Maurice,  "The 
Centaur."  This  poet  whose  sensibility  was  as  exquisite 
as  Chopin's,  I  still  love.  But  he  didn't  die  a  moment  too 
soon  for  his  artistic  reputation.  My  chief  offence,  how 
ever,  was  Walt  Whitman,  the  1867  edition  of  his  "Poems." 
Professor  George  Saintsbury  had  introduced  me  to  the 
genius  of  Baudelaire — who  waxes  in  greatness  with  the 
waning  of  the  years — and  Professor  Edward  Dowden  of 
Dublin,  sent  me  in  eager  haste  to  modern  French  litera 
ture — that  is,  modern  in  1875  or  thereabouts.  I  had  in 
troduced  myself  to  Whitman  by  securing  his  volumes  and 
later  (1877)  by  visiting  the  Bard  of  Camden  in  his  lair 
on  Mickle  Street.  But  I  had  seen  him  for  years  on  Mar 
ket  or  Chestnut  Streets,  a  Homeric  man,  good  to  gaze 
upon,  with  his  magnificent  head  and  bare  chest.  I  never 
saw  him  without  a  forlorn  pup  at  his  heels.  But  I  have 
told  you  all  this  in  Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks.  He  is  one 
of  the  peacocks. 

Dr.  Stone  knew  that  a  youth  who  poisoned  himself 
with  such  powerful  and  pernicious  toxics  as  Baudelaire 
and  Whitman  had  no  inner  call  to  religion,  though  its 
ritual  appealed  to  his  aesthetic  sense.  I  read  all  day 
when  I  had  a  chance,  read  everything  from  editorials  in 
the  Public  Ledger,  which  seemed  to  me  masterpieces  of 
common-sense,  to  Dante  and  Shakespeare.  The  Divine 
Comedy  had  just  appeared  with  the  fantastic  illustrations 
of  Gustave  Dore.  The  poem  and  pictures  gripped  us, 
and  I  see  myself  playing  Lucifer  to  my  brother  Paul's 
Minotaur  in  our  back  yard.  Every  circle  in  the  Inferno 


MY  MOTHER  57 


we  tried  to  imitate.  Many  rows  with  my  old  nurse, 
Maish  Finn,  ensued.  To-day  the  "terza  rima"  of  that 
sombre  and  magnificent  poet  is  as  alluring  as  ever.  Pos 
sibly  Dore  and  his  vivid  fancy  first  attracted  us.  Don 
Quixote  was  another  magnet.  And  Bunyan,  with  his 
glorious  apotheosis  of  the  soul,  which  we  accepted  as 
sheer  facts,  thanks  to  his  sober,  convincing  prose,  be 
came  a  masque  of  boyhood.  But  the  dream  of  a  sacer 
dotal  dedication  was  further  away  than  ever.  My  mother 
once  remarked:  "What  can  you  expect  in  the  future  if 
you  turn  your  mind  into  a  sewer  for  all  these  vile  poets 
and  infidels?"  She  didn't  know  that  Baudelaire  is  the 
Catholic  poet  par  excellence,  one  whose  morose  delecta 
tion  would  have  been  congenial  to  John  of  the  Cross, 
Ruysbroeck,  or  any  early  mystic.  Contempt  for  life  is 
in  his  words,  hatred  of  self,  fiercer  hatred  for  woman,  a 
hatred  so  cuttingly  expressed  by  the  monk,  St.  Odo  of 
Cluny,  "quomodo  ipsum  steroris  saccum  amplecti  de- 
sideramus !"  truly  a  judgment  on  feminine  beauty  in  the 
manner  of  the  early  Church  Fathers.  (I  quote  this  from 
Affirmations,  by  that  philosophic  and  erudite  critic, 
Havelock  Ellis,  a  writer  after  my  own  heart.)  Or,  Arthur 
Schopenhauer,  with  his  convincing  pronouncements  of 
the  nothingness  of  life !  Isn't  he  in  consonance  with  the 
wisdom  of  the  church?  Not  the  pellucid  style  and  charm 
of  Cardinal  Newman  could  offset  the  deadly  lessons  in 
pessimism  of  the  poet  and  philosopher;  Walt  Whitman 
and  his  Bowery  Boy  Emersonism,  his  anarchic  defiance 
of  the  ordinary  decencies  of  life  completed  the  disruption 
of  my  character.  Hereafter  these  were  the  dissonances 
in  my  little  harmonic  scale.  The  spiritual  dichotomy 
was  complete.  My  mother  was  right — and  yet,  and  yet, 
life  is  to  be  faced,  not  feared.  Prove  all  things,  said  the 


58  STEEPLEJACK 

Apostle.  I  might  have  made  a  short  cut  to  salvation  if 
I  had  listened  to  my  mother.  But  I  didn't.  I  was 
wrong.  And  if  I  had  to  go  through  it  all  again  I  should 
proceed  approximately  the  same.  Cowardice  is  a  more 
fatal  spiritual  lesion  than  vainglorious  rashness.  For 
each  man  must  weave  the  web  of  his  own  destiny.  There 
is  a  time  to  be  static  and  there  is  a  time  to  be  dynamic. 
The  trouble  was  that  I  too  often  played  the  dynamic  at 
the  wrong  time.  What  I  most  wonder  at,  and  also  ad 
mire,  is  the  tolerant  spirit  exhibited  by  my  mother.  She 
protested,  but  she  allowed  me  my  intellectual  freedom. 
Once  I  saw  her  genuinely  indignant.  She  caught  me  on 
the  roof  reading  Strathmore,  by  Ouida,  a  novelist  she 
detested.  Like  Max  Beerbohm,  I  had  conceived  a  pas 
sion  for  this  extravagantly  romantic  writer.  Not  even 
"  Guy  Livingstone/'  from  whom  Ouida  derived,  cured  me 
of  her  sentimental  sensuality.  Dickens  did,  and  when  I 
reached,  in  due  course  of  time,  Thackeray,  the  Ouida 
measles  had  quite  disappeared. 

But  the  school  was  looming  up,  school  and  its  odious 
tasks,  its  discipline,  its  convict-like  confinement.  It 
was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  I  should  be  sent  to  a 
sectarian  establishment,  though  not  to  the  parish  school. 
I  had  been  taught  my  catechism  by  the  good  nuns,  and 
also  at  our  parish  church,  St.  Malachi's,  on  Eleventh 
Street  near  Jefferson.  Gaunt  Father  Kelly  had  scared 
us  with  his  harsh  manner,  and  I  soon  feared  him.  It 
was  an  adventure,  too,  the  trip  from  Seventh  Street. 
Gangs  of  rival  boys  laid  in  wait  for  us  and  many  times 
I  ran  homeward,  dodging  stones  and  brickbats.  The 
old  lawlessness  of  the  fire  companies  had  been  abolished, 
but  not  altogether.  The  South  Penn  Hose  Company 
fought  the  Cohocksink  Hose  at  every  fire.  I  saw  a 


MY  MOTHER  59 


building  burn  down  on  Marshal  Street  one  bitter  cold 
morning  while  red-shirted  heroes  in  the  old  style  fire 
man's  hat  beat  each  other  with  spanners,  hose-pipes,  and 
fists.  It  was  magnificent,  but  it  wasn't  fair  to  the  house 
holders.  Like  their  elders,  the  young  "toughs"  who 
played  in  the  Ninth  Street  lots  descended,  a  horde  of 
savages,  on  the  more  civilised  purlieus  of  Franklin  or 
Seventh  Streets.  "Baste  the  dudes/'  "bang  the  squirts" 
were  passwords.  Any  boy  who  wore  a  clean  collar  was 
considered  effeminate;  nor  did  the  girls  escape.  The 
cotton-dollies  wearing  sunbonnets  from  up  Kensington 
way  would  assault  any  girl  with  pretty  ribbons  or  hair 
carefully  combed.  On  election  nights  the  guerilla  war 
fare  was  terrifying.  Bands  of  young  ruffians — some  of 
them  I  know  to-day  as  distinguished  lights  on  the  Bench, 
at  the  Bar,  also  in  the  Eastern  Penitentiary — swept  down 
on  our  bonfires,  ruthlessly  stamping  them  out;  worse, 
actually  stealing  the  flaming  barrels  (so  sedulously  stolen 
by  our  gang  earlier  in  the  week)  and  then  dumping  them 
in  a  cage,  which  they  dragged  over  the  cobble-stones, 
with  yells  of  triumph.  One  November  evening  my 
father  tried  conclusions  with  them.  They  escaped  his 
slipper,  his  only  weapon  of  offence,  and  he  limped  back, 
quite  forgetful  of  one  foot  in  a  stocking.  These  affairs 
deeply  impressed  me.  I  was  a  physical  coward,  and 
dodged  a  fight  whenever  I  could.  But  one  afternoon  I  was 
cornered.  Then  the  scared  boy  became  desperate.  For 
weeks  that  conflict  was  the  subject  of  gossip  and  curious 
comment.  I  put  a  bully  down  and  out,  but  there  was 
much  critical  asperity  over  my  methods.  I  was  said  to 
have  fought  unfairly.  Why?  Simply  because  I  trans 
formed  my  left  arm  into  a  revolving  flail — if  such  a  thing 
could  be — and  knocked  the  other  chap  senseless.  I 


60  STEEPLEJACK 

won't  say  that  admiration  was  withheld,  but  it  was  quali 
fied.  "You  hadn't  ought  to  done  it,"  was  the  final 
judgment  of  a  veteran  pugilist  of  ten.  And  I  shouldn't, 
but  I  won.  Later,  on  Chancellor  Street,  down-town,  in 
my  famous  fight  to  a  finish  with  bare  knuckles,  with 
Jimmy  Kelly,  my  old  tactics  availed  me  naught.  I  had 
both  eyes  blackened,  swollen  lips,  one  tooth  loosened, 
and  an  ear  magnified  to  the  size  and  colour  of  a  ripe 
tomato.  After  that  downfall  I  abandoned  all  hopes  of 
the  prize-ring. 

Another  time  I  was  rescued  by  my  elder  brother  at 
the  corner  of  Eighth  and  Jefferson  Streets.  Vacant  lots. 
A  covey  of  vicious  lads.  The  gas-house  gang.  I  only 
played  the  witness,  incidentally  dodging  flying  missiles. 
But  the  enemy  didn't  count  opposed  to  the  skill,  strength 
and  courage  of  my  brother.  He  sailed  into  them  like 
an  armoured  cruiser,  battered  down  their  defence,  and 
finally  chased  them  from  the  field.  That  night  a  parlour 
window  was  broken  by  a  half  brick.  They  never  for 
gave  us.  I  quit  the  dangerous  route,  except  on  Sun 
days,  when  protected  by  my  parents.  I  had  been  con 
firmed  at  St.  Malachi's  by  Bishop  Wood,  afterwards 
Archbishop,  as  I  had  been  dedicated  at  St.  Michael's 
by  Bishop  Gibbons,  later  Cardinal  James  Gibbons.  I 
was  taken  by  my  mother  into  the  Sacristy  of  St.  Michael's 
and  kissed  the  hand  of  that  distinguished  churchman. 
Furthermore,  I  had  been  given  in  confirmation  the  name 
of  St.  Aloysius  of  Gonzaga,  the  patron  saint  of  purity. 
That  was  handing  over  a  hostage  to  fortune.  The  devil 
must  have  smiled  when  the  news  reached  his  apartment 
in  the  infernal  tropics.  He  was  at  my  elbow  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  has  never  left  it  since.  At  three  score 
and  ten  I  hope  to  rid  myself  of  this  particular  pest,  but 


MY  MOTHER  61 


not  till  then.  (Ah!  the  braggart,  I  hear  him  whisper.) 
After  my  first  communion  at  the  convent  this  diabolic 
familiar  came  in  conflict  with  my  guardian  angel.  I 
fought  with  my  junior  brother  over  a  silver  watch,  and 
we  punched  and  cursed  till  separated.  No  denying  the 
existence  of  demons.  Again  my  mother  shook  her  head. 
My  worldly  vocation  was  undeniable. 


I  GO  TO  SCHOOL 

The  school  selected  for  me  was  Roth's  Military  Acad 
emy  at  No.  337  South  Broad  Street.  The  building  still 
stands,  the  facade  unchanged.  From  Seventh  and  Jeffer 
son  Streets  to  it  was  a  long  distance.  It  seemed  unend 
ing.  I  took  the  walk  every  day  in  fair  weather,  usually 
in  company  with  my  brother  and  sister.  We  were  in 
timate  with  several  Jewish  families;  the  Aubs,  the 
Eisners,  the  Bacharachs — be  still,  my  heart,  one  beautiful 
maid,  Bertha  by  name,  with  Oriental  eyes  and  tresses 
won  my  admiration ! — and  the  chattering  crowd  would 
go  down  Franklin  Street  to  our  various  schools.  I  don't 
know  whether  customs  have  changed,  but  many  of  my 
sister's  school  companions  were  of  Jewish  origin.  Roman 
Catholics  and  Jews  got  along  very  well  as  any  Catholic 
convent  list  then  proved.  One  morning  we  were  alone, 
my  sister  and  I,  and  at  the  corner  of  Eighth  and  Poplar 
Streets  were  suddenly  attacked  by  a  lot  of  boys  who 
cried:  "Jew,  Jew,  where's  your  pork?"  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  been  called  a  Jew,  but  not  the  last. 
Being  liberal  in  our  notions  we  did  not  feel  insulted,  until 
the  fighting  blood  of  the  Gibbons  was  aroused  in  my  sister. 
I  was  too  puny  to  be  of  assistance.  She  needed  none. 
Firmly  grasping  the  straps  of  her  leather  school-bag,  she 
whirled  it  about  as  if  it  were  a  Zulu  club;  the  same  circular 
tactics  that  won  my  first  battle.  The  rout  was  unques 
tionable.  She  banged  those  boys  so  badly  that  there 
after  we  were  never  molested.  In  my  eyes  she  became 

62 


I   GO  TO  SCHOOL  63 

Boadicea.  What  made  me  a  peculiar  victim  was  the 
cadet  uniform  I  was  compelled  to  wear.  A  torture  !  On 
our  caps  were  the  letters  B.  S.  C. :  Broad  Street  Cadets, 
which  was  jeeringly  transposed  to  Broad  Street  Cleaners 
by  the  hoodlums.  "Envy,"  said  my  mother.  But  I 
didn't  think  so.  It  was  the  hatred  of  any  boy  for  an 
other  who  is  differently  dressed.  That  uniform — what 
unhappy  hours  it  gave  me !  How  I  loathed  its  grey  and 
black,  its  buttons,  its  cap !  Professor  Roth,  our  prin 
cipal,  ranked  the  soldier  only  one  step  below  the  priest 
in  the  social  hierarchy.  A  good  soldier  makes  a  good 
citizen,  he  declared.  A  good  citizen  makes  a  good  hus 
band,  a  pious  churchman.  Obedience  was  his  watch 
word,  and  then  the  health-giving  drill,  the  physical  de 
velopment  in  the  gymnasium !  This  military  discipline 
and  the  Latin  language  were  the  two  obsessions  of  the 
worthy  man,  for  obsessions  they  were. 

It  was  the  alphabet  and  Latin,  arithmetic  and  Latin, 
grammar  and  Latin,  geography  and  Latin,  history  and 
Latin,  mathematics  and  Latin,  the  arts  and  sciences  and 
Latin,  and  of  course,  religion  and  Latin.  Before  I  could 
parse  an  English  sentence  I  had  Caesar  pumped  into  me. 
At  twelve  I  had  bolted  the  Latin  literature,  and  to-day 
I  can't  read  Cicero  without  mental  nausea,  though 
Horace  is  always  at  my  elbow.  Greek  literature  was  then 
a  sealed  book,  not  because  Mr.  Roth  disliked  it,  he  was 
too  much  a  humanist  for  that,  but  that  he  loved  Latin 
the  more.  The  consequence  is  that  I  know  little  Latin 
and  less  Greek.  But  the  solid  foundations  were  laid 
and  aided  me  in  modern  literature  and  in  the  study  of 
the  law.  We  read  Greek  in  translation  from  Xenophon's 
Anabasis  to  the  decadent  writers.  I  had  not  then  any 
taste  for  Huysman's  favourite  fourth  and  fifth  centuries 


64  STEEPLEJACK 

A.  D.  Latin  authors.  St.  Augustine,  however,  seemed 
as  romantic  as  Rousseau  or  Amiel.  But  English !  Ah ! 
That  was  the  weak  joint  in  the  Roth  educational  armour, 
the  three  R's  I  mean.  The  curriculum  was  the  ordinary 
one.  We  ploughed  through  it  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 
I'm  weak  on  grammar  and  algebra  to-day.  But  a  page 
of  Livy  or  a  quotation  from  Plutarch  would  fire  the  en 
thusiasm  of  our  chief,  and  farewell  to  Prescott  or  differ 
ential  calculus.  French  came  next  in  the  favour  of  this 
remarkable  Irishman,  and  Jules  Verne,  then  fresh  on  the 
horizon,  he  translated  for  our  benefit.  It  was  like  a 
rummage-bag,  this  system.  You  put  in  your  hand  and 
at  hazard  drew  forth  anything  from  Aristotle  to  Plain- 
Chant.  Choral  singing  was  a  rule  enforced.  Leopold 
Engelke  our  preceptor.  He  was  an  excellent  violon 
cellist,  and  like  so  many  musicians  of  the  time  he  taught 
singing  and  played  the  organ.  We  sang  everything, 
more  or  less,  in  tune;  we  sang  the  Gloria  from  Mozart's 
reputed  "Twelfth  Mass,"  and  we  sang  with  infinite  glee  a 
rollicking  air  to  the  words  of  "Johnny  Schmoker."  Negro 
minstrelsy  was  in  its  golden  prime,  and  Carncross  and 
Dixey's  on  Eleventh  Street  furnished  us  with  a  repertory 
of  "nigger"  melodies.  Happy  days?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
I  hated  them  then,  and  I  look  back  to  them  with  a  sense 
of  relief  that  they  are  over  and  done  with.  It  is  a  com 
mon  error  among  grown-ups  to  fancy  that  childhood  is 
the  happiest  period  of  our  lives.  It  is  usually  the  most 
miserable.  Often  I  wished  that  my  childhood  could  be 
abolished.  I  envied  my  elders;  envied  their  freedom 
from  constructive  criticism,  from  bullying,  from  flogging, 
and  a  hundred  other  cruel  impediments  between  my 
wishes  and  their  fulfilment.  There  were  plenty  of  boys 
who  thought  as  I  did.  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry 


I   GO  TO  SCHOOL  65 

Finn  are  delightful  fairy  books  for  the  old,  who  wish 
their  school-days  had  been  so  recklessly  vagrant  and  filled 
with  impossible  adventures.  I  was  like  boys  of  my  age 
and  enjoyed  myself  out  of  school,  but  study  killed  the 
joy  of  living. 

Goethe,  supposed  to  be  the  happiest  man  in  history, 
confessed  at  four  score  that  he  could  remember  only  four 
weeks  of  positive  happiness  in  a  long  life,  and  those  weeks 
were  scattered,  resolving  themselves  into  days,  hours, 
or  mere  fractions  of  a  minute.  Perhaps  if  the  truth  be 
told,  few  lucky  men  could  boast  even  four  weeks.  I  can 
recall  one  brief  blazing  second  of  absolute  happiness,when 
I  actually  said  to  myself,  "  I  am  happy."  It  was  like  the 
moments  of  ecstasy  that  are  said  to  presage  an  epileptic 
seizure,  when  the  arterial  tension  is  dangerously  high  and 
approaches  a  cerebral  crisis.  I  was  about  ten  or  twelve. 
It  was  at  the  corner  of  Seventh  and  Oxford  Streets,  where 
the  old  hay-market  stood.  Hay  in  those  days  was  not 
baled  and  sent  to  market  as  it  is  now;  the  hay- wagon 
was  in  its  glory — the  hay-wagon  with  its  driver  concealed 
in  front,  and  a  string  of  urchins  tagging  behind.  You 
may  see  this  hay-wagon  in  the  paintings  of  John  Con 
stable  engraved  by  Lucas.  The  day  was  an  early  spring 
one;  saturated  with  sunshine,  the  air  eager  and  nipping. 
A  feeling  of  contentment  flooded  my  consciousness.  A 
hay-wagon  went  by.  I  was  as  if  transfigured.  I  mur 
mured:  "I  am  happy."  I  fancy  it  was  the  sensation 
superinduced  by  a  perfect  balance  of  body  and  spirit; 
that  and  youth.  The  Greeks  named  it  ataraxia.  I  have 
never  experienced  the  feeling  since,  not  even  in  the  trans 
ports  of  calf-love.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  as  I  looked  at 
the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  a  hay-wagon,  old-fashioned 
as  ever,  moved  up  Walnut  Street  and  turned  into  Ninth 


66  STEEPLEJACK 

Street.  In  a  vivid  flash  a  bolt  from  the  blue  of  my 
locked  memory-chambers  came  the  incident  I  relate.  I 
saw  the  old  hay-market  on  Oxford  Street  and  the  hay- 
wagons,  felt  the  cutting  sunshine,  but  I  didn't  repeat: 
"I  am  happy."  That  seldom  comes  more  than  once  in 
a  lifetime,  and,  to  be  quite  philosophical  over  the  matter, 
it  is  just  as  well,  for  then  the  reactions  are  fewer.  You 
may  not  attain  paradise,  nor  do  you  tumble  into  hell. 
I  can  conceive  of  no  more  awful  suffering  than  the  pro 
longed  rapture  we  call  happiness.  Human  nature  can 
endure  misery,  but  not  without  peril  to  its  immortal  soul 
can  it  wallow  in  happiness.  Some  cynic  has  observed 
that  life  would  be  tolerable  were  it  not  for  its  pleasures, 
and  Lord  Brassey,  traveller  and  yachtsman,  after  a  long 
life  of  enjoyment,  has  told  us  that  he  positively  loathed 
his  existence  because  of  its  happiness. 

My  school  companion  and  deskmate  was  Lewis  Baker, 
afterwards  on  the  stage,  and  John  Drew's  brother-in-law. 
His  father  was  Lewis  Baker,  an  excellent  comedian, 
first  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  later  with  Daly  in  New 
York.  All  I  remember  of  Lewis  is  that  he  invariably  ate 
my  luncheon,  and  knowing  there  was  no  escaping  this 
expropriation  I  begged  our  cook  to  give  me  double  ra 
tions,  which  she  did  (she  always  spoiled  me).  But  the 
appetite  of  Lewis  at  once  became  more  ferocious.  I,  who 
had  been  dubbed  "hollow-legs"  by  my  satirical  father, 
because  of  my  capacity  for  a  miscellaneous  cargo  of  food, 
was  silenced  by  Lewis  Baker's  prowess.  So  we  came  to 
daily  blows,  and  finally  Professor  Roth  conducted  us  to 
the  death-cell  where  he  slapped  our  hands  with  a  heavy 
ferule.  Why  I  should  have  been  punished  I  couldn't 
discover.  It  was  my  first  collision  with  the  inherent 
injustice  of  all  things  mundane.  And  I  revolted.  On 


I   GO  TO  SCHOOL  67 

general  principles,  I  became  the  worst  behaved  boy  in 
my  class.  I  stopped  studying.  I  played  "hookey."  I 
defied  my  legal  guardians.  I  was  "agin"  all  forms  of 
government.  It  was  only  one  of  those  little  tempera 
mental  outbreaks  which  any  teacher  recognises  as  inevi 
table.  Mr.  Roth  was  not  a  tactful  man.  We  were 
students  by  compulsion.  He  took  little  account  of  in 
dividual  variations  in  character.  It  was  the  same  old 
mould-theory  of  education.  Dress  alike,  walk  alike, 
think  alike.  Nietzsche  has  defined  the  Prussian  as  "long 
legs  and  obedience,"  and  Roth's  idea  of  a  boy  was  as  a 
receptacle  for  the  Latin  language,  and  a  capacity  for  re 
peating  "Amo,  Amas,  Amat"  ad  nauseam.  Automatons, 
well-drilled  but  incapable,  any  one  of  us,  of  forming  a 
personal  opinion — beyond  hating  our  masters.  I  re 
spectfully  submit  that  this  is  the  wrong  way.  Our  re 
ceptive  brains  are  so  stuffed  with  indigestible  facts  that 
only  lifelong  experience  frees  us  from  the  abominable 
clogging.  I  don't  know  how  it  was  in  the  upper  classes 
of  this  school,  which  I  never  reached,  thanks  to  my 
inveterate  laziness,  but  it  must  have  been  the  same. 


VI 

THE  PLAYERS 

John  Drew  and  my  brother,  John,  were  classmates, 
and  their  friendship  continued  after  their  school-days  had 
ended.  They  joined  the  Malta  Boat  Club  and  often 
rowed  double-sculls  on  the  Schuylkill  course.  Young 
Drew  was  already  on  the  boards,  a  promising  beginner. 
I  saw  him  make  his  debut  in  "Cool  as  a  Cucumber,"  at 
the  old  Arch  Street  Theatre,  then  under  the  management 
of  his  mother,  that  sterling  actress  and  admirable  woman, 
Mrs.  John  Drew.  Later  his  sister,  Georgia  Drew,  not 
yet  married  to  brilliant,  irresponsible  Maurice  Barry- 
more,  also  made  her  first  bow  before  the  footlights  in 
this  theatre.  My  father  decorated  the  establishment 
from  time  to  time,  and  was  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Drew.  After 
some  friendly  dispute  over  the  colours  I  heard  him  call 
her  "Mother  Drew."  I  was  aghast.  It  seemed  as  sacri 
legious  as  calling  Sarah  Siddons  "Mother."  But  Mrs. 
Drew  only  laughed  and  shook  her  forefinger  at  my  father. 
"Now,  John  Huneker,"  she  cried,  "if  this  theatre  isn't 
decorated  on  time,  then  I'll  open  it  with  your  scaffolding 
in  it  just  the  same."  She  could  play  Lady  Gay  Spanker, 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  the  adventuress  in  "Home,"  and  also 
remain  a  shrewd  woman  of  business.  She  was  my  first 
Lady  Teazle,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  Queen  Gertrude  in 
"Hamlet,"  and  I  worshipped  her.  When  I  saw  her  for 
the  last  time  on  the  stage,  in  "The  Rivals"  with  Joseph 
Jefferson,  she  was  venerable  in  years,  but  her  vivacity 
made  the  audience  oblivious  to  her  age.  She  was  a  fine 

68 


THE   PLAYERS  69 


comedienne,  and  her  gifted  grandchildren,  Ethel,  Lionel, 
and  John  Barrymore,  owe  her  much,  and  with  her  son, 
John,  have  much  to  be  proud  of  their  lineage.  My  chief 
dissipation  was  this  same  Arch  Street  Theatre.  The 
stock  company  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  rank  in  com 
pleteness  with  any  other,  and  the  visiting  "guests"  were 
distinguished. 

Another  of  my  passions  was  E.  A.  Sothern,  the  father 
of  E.  H.  Sothern,  Lytton,  and  Sam  Sothern.  Lytton  is 
dead.  I  thought  him  more  talented  as  an  actor  than  his 
brother,  Edward.  But  who  knows?  I  was  very  young 
and  impressionable,  and  perhaps  my  intimacy  later  on 
with  Lytton  may  have  influenced  my  judgment.  He  was 
a  handsome,  winning  chap.  But  one  thing  is  certain: 
none  of  the  three  sons  rivalled  their  father  in  art  or  per 
sonality.  Pathos  was  his  weak  point,  and  he  knew  it; 
nevertheless,  his  David  Garrick  mellowed  with  the  years. 
I  believe  his  Fitzaltamont  in  that  screaming  burlesque, 
"The  Crushed  Tragedian,"  recorded  in  reverse  fashion 
his  aspirations.  He  had  wished  to  enact  tragedy,  but 
nature  forbade  him.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  an 
intonation  in  his  voice  that  won  his  audience  from  the 
moment  he  set  foot  on  the  boards;  but  the  tragic  tem 
perament  he  had  not.  Yet  there  was  one  speech,  a 
soliloquy  in  "The  Crushed  Tragedian,"  that  he  delivered 
with  genuine  feeling;  it  sets  forth  his  ambition  to  be 
come  the  greatest  tragedian  that  ever  lived.  It  always 
gave  the  audience  pause  when  spoken  by  Mr.  Sothern,  a 
respite  from  his  laughter-breeding  antics.  The  piece 
was  wretched  stuff;  nor  was  Lord  Dundreary  much 
better.  Laura  Keene  gave  it  up  in  despair.  So  did 
John  Sleeper  Clarke,  whose  Asa  Trenchard  was  capital. 
"Our  American  Cousin,"  as  it  was  then  known,  was  all 


7o  STEEPLEJACK 

Sothern.  Aut  Sothern  aut  nihil.  His  English  " swell"  of 
the  day — the  Ouida  and  "Guy  Livingstone"  period — was 
a  finely  wrought  piece  of  art.  Remember,  too,  that  the 
elder  Sothern's  Dundreary  was  far  from  being  an  imbecile, 
caricature  as  he  was  of  the  heavy  guardsman  type.  He 
had  a  keen  eye  for  his  personal  interests,  witness  his 
stuttering  speech:  "I  require  all  my  influence  for  my 
own  family."  Not  Richard  Mansfield  as  Beau  Brum- 
mel  exhibited  such  polished  art  as  Sothern  in  this  poor 
play,  although  it  was  no  worse  in  quality  than  Clyde 
Fitch's  travesty.  When  Sothern  played  Dundreary  at 
the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  it  was  with  a  different  cast. 
Linda  Dietz  from  the  Haymarket,  London,  was  the 
Georgina.  Mrs.  Walcott,  Bailey,  Atkins  Lawrence — 
who  would  have  been  a  " movie"  idol  now — with  Charles 
Walcot  as  Trenchard  and  Hemple  as  the  valet,  not  so 
competent,  if  I  remember  aright,  as  the  inimitable  Binney 
of  W.  H.  Chapman.  This  was  years  after  the  original 
performance  of  the  piece. 

Amusing  as  he  was  in  "Brother  Sam,"  with  a  blond 
make-up  and  not  appearing  over  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  Mr.  Sothern  was  more  in  his  element  as  David  Gar- 
rick.  Only  Salvini — in  "Sullivan,"  the  foreign  title — 
effaced  our  impression  of  his  drunken  scene.  As  Sydney 
Spoonbill  in  "A  Hornet's  Nest,"  by  Byron,  this  English 
comedian  was  vastly  entertaining.  His  native  elegance, 
his  personal  charm,  his  handsome  features,  his  lightness 
of  touch,  recall  what  we  read  of  the  palmy  days  of  Charles 
Mathews.  He  was  the  best  English-speaking  comedian 
I  ever  saw  except  Charles  Coghlan,  and  Coghlan  was  not 
so  lovable  as  Sothern,  who  was  a  gentleman  on  and  off 
the  boards.  His  son,  E.  H.  Sothern,  inherited  more  than 
a  modicum  of  his  father's  deft  art,  and,  while  I  applaud 


THE   PLAYERS  71 


his  ambitious  efforts  as  a  Shakespeare  tragedian,  I  think 
the  American  theatre  lost  one  of  its  best  light  comedians 
because  of  this  vaulting  ambition.  We  remember  his 
early  impersonations  at  the  old  Lyceum  on  Fourth 
Avenue,  New  York,  when  he  was  supported  by  Virginia 
Harned,  and  in  "The  Highest  Bidder."  Possibly  his 
high-water  mark  was  in  "If  I  Were  King."  His  Claude, 
Hamlet,  and  Macbeth  were  not  convincing,  but  his  Mal- 
volio  had  good  points.  However,  it  is  ungrateful  to  bear 
down  too  heavily  on  the  temperamental  shortcomings 
of  an  earnest,  studious  actor,  the  son  of  a  distinguished 
sire,  who,  despite  his  physical  limitations — he  lacked  the 
necessary  inches  for  tragedy — did  so  much  for  Shake 
speare  in  this  .country  in  conjunction  with  fascinating 
Julia  Marlowe.  Arthur  Symons  praised  the  pure  dic 
tion  of  this  artistic  pair,  when  they  played  in  London. 
The  crisp,  too-staccato  speech  of  Sothern  was  counter 
balanced  by  the  rich,  organ-like  music  of  Miss  Marlowe's 
voice.  Such  a  voice  I  have  not  heard  since  Adelaide 
Neilson's. 

Sothern  was  not  the  only  attraction  at  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre.  I  forgot  to  add  that  once  I  saw  him  play 
"opposite"  to  Mrs.  Drew  in  " L' Aventuriere."  Edwin 
Booth,  then  in  his  prime,  was  a  visitor  there.  I  hardly 
lived  on  earth  after  his  Hamlet  and  lago.  I  had  seen 
Charles  Fechter's  impersonation,  blond  wig,  Soho  accent 
and  all;  but  I  was  not  old  enough  to  mark  the  differences 
in  the  two  readings.  Fechter  had  seemed  to  me — superb 
actor  that  he  was — to  be  a  robustious,  periwigged  fellow, 
who,  all  fat  and  fury,  ranted  too  much.  And  as  it  was 
toward  the  close  of  an  exceptionally  brilliant  career,  he 
was  too  flabby  to  be  an  ideal  Prince  of  Denmark.  He 
was  then  married  to  Lizzie  Price,  of  the  Arch  Street  Com- 


72  STEEPLEJACK 

pany,  and  lived  at  Doylestown.  We  shuddered  at  the  ex 
pression  of  malignity  of  his  Obenreizer  in  the  dramatised 
version  of  "No  Thoroughfare."  His  Bertuccio  in  "The 
Fool's  Revenge"  must  have  been  played  in  the  same 
sinister  key.  I  never  saw  it,  but  I  saw  Edwin  Booth  as 
the  Jester  and  was  more  than  satisfied.  Only  Victor 
Maurel  in  "Rigoletto,"  the  operatic  version,  paralleled 
Booth  in  the  part;  as  he  did  later  as  lago  in  Verdi's 
"Otello."  The  Arch  Street  "stock"  was  excellent. 
Watching  it  for  years  from  the  family  circle  (twenty-five 
cents)  I  became  familiar  with  a  wide  repertory  of  plays; 
restoration  comedy,  the  classics  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  and  the  entire  range  of  mid- Victorian  pieces.  Tom 
Robertson  and  H.  J.  Byron  were  favourites,  and  "Caste" 
was  considered  a  test  for  any  theatrical  company,  as 
indeed  it  was,  and  as  indeed  it  would  be  nowadays. 
Just  put  some  of  the  belauded  actors  who  are  drawing 
full  houses  in  such  amusing  rubbish  as  "Oh,  Boy,"  "Oh, 
Girl,"  "Hello  Bill,"  "Oh,  Rot,"  into  the  parts  of  Old 
Eccles  or  Sam  Gerridge  or  Polly  Eckles  and  you  would 
see  the  muddle  they  would  make  of  these  contrasted 
characters.  I've  often  attended  performances  of  the 
"little  theatres"  with  their  bandbox  art,  and  wondered 
over  the  rawness  of  the  acting.  Want  of  stock  training 
is  the  cause.  Any  fly-by-night  company  in  my  youth 
could,  at  a  few  hours'  notice,  give  better  interpretations 
of  not  only  Shakespeare,  but  also  modern  comedy,  than 
these  young  men  and  women,  who  make  a  dab  at  Nora 
Helmer,  agonise  over  Oswald  Alving,  wriggle  through 
Hedda  Gabler,  but  can't  speak  clearly  or  convincingly, 
or,  for  that  matter,  walk  across  the  stage  without  sex 
consciousness.  I  won't  pretend  to  deny  that  Ibsen  isn't 
a  thousand  times  superior  to  Robertson  or  Byron,  Pinero, 


THE   PLAYERS  73 


Henry  Arthur  Jones,  or  Shaw,  but  their  now  conven 
tionalised  drama  was  once  fresh  and  full  of  "fat"  for  the 
actor.  Studying  a  variety  of  roles  is  the  best  exercise 
for  young  people.  It  is  the  problem,  ethical  or  otherwise, 
of  the  play  that  now  captures  their  interest  when  it 
should  be  the  problem  of  acting.  Think  of  Barton  Hill, 
Lizzie  Price,  W.  Davidge,  Bob  Craig,  John  Drew,  Mrs. 
Drew,  the  two  Walcots,  Sam  Hemple,  Ed.  Marble,  and 
others  whose  names  may  be  found  in  the  annals  of  the 
day,  and  all  in  "stock"  company.  Charles  Walcott  in 
particular  was  a  versatile  actor.  And  H.  E.  Meredith. 
Craig  was  always  comical.  Why,  any  one  of  these  men 
and  women  would  be  stars  in  comparison  with  the  half- 
baked  professionals  of  to-day.  Nor  is  this  belief  the 
jaundiced  expression  of  a  bored  old  man.  It  is  history. 
When  these  stock  companies  went  out,  whether  in 
Philadelphia,  Boston,  or  New  York,  the  art  of  acting 
deteriorated.  The  average  plays  of  yester-year  were  no 
better  than  those  of  the  new  century.  Mediocrity  never 
varies;  but  the  actors  have  disappeared.  And  the 
"movies"  have  given  them  the  final  push  over  the  preci 
pice  into  oblivion. 

P.  S. — My  father  made  the  same  complaint  circa  1875. 


VII 
THE  OLD  TOWN 

The  Philadelphia  of  my  school-days  was  a  prettier,  a 
more  provincial,  withal  a  pleasanter  place  to  live  in  than 
the  Philadelphia  of  this  year  of  grace.  I  was  younger, 
and  when  one  is  young  the  world  is  seen  through  en 
chanted  spectacles;  nevertheless,  there  are  well-defined 
criteria  by  the  aid  of  which  I  can  verify  my  childish 
judgments.  The  city  was  greener,  trees  abounded,  and 
flowers,  lawns,  and  gardens;  not  only  in  yards,  but  facing 
the  houses.  Fountains  were  more  plentiful.  The  rural 
appearance  was  more  pronounced,  a  grave  defect  in  the 
eyes  of  tasteless  persons  who  prefer  the  ugliness  of  tall 
factory-like  buildings;  the  uncouth  mobs,  and  hideous 
noise  of  New  York.  Philadelphia,  to  be  sure,  was  not 
cosmopolitan,  yet  it  was  more  attractive,  and  at  the  risk 
of  being  paradoxical,  more  European.  Certain  sections 
of  The  Hague,  Haarlem,  Amsterdam,  and  Utrecht  in  Hol 
land,  recall  to  me  the  city  of  my  early  youth;  the  rather 
prim  two  and  three  story  brick  residences,  the  white 
marble  steps,  gardens  behind,  and  the  immaculately  kept 
brick  pavements,  these  and  a  dozen  other  resemblances 
came  to  my  mind  when  I  lived  in  the  Dutch  cities — of 
whose  placid,  well-ordered  life  I  am  exceedingly  fond. 
Best  of  all  to  a  musician  with  sensitive  ears  was  the  ab 
sence  of  unnecessary  noise,  for  there  is  unnecessary  as 
well  as  unavoidable  noise.  When  the  horse  cars  first 
jogged  through  Seventh  Street,  we  all  exclaimed  at  their 
clangour.  The  market  carts  which  came  in  from  Mont- 

74 


THE  OLD  TOWN  75 

gomery  County  at  dawn  on  Wednesday  and  Saturday, 
rumbled  over  the  cobble-stones,  but  they  were  quiet  in 
comparison  with  the  cars.  And  now  the  overhead  trolley 
is  deafening.  It  fills  every  alley  with  its  buzzing,  and 
the  metallic  clanking  of  the  cars  put  Philadelphia  on  the 
map  as  one  of  the  noisiest  cities  in  the  Union. 

No  fear  any  longer  of  the  cruel  aspersion  of  rusticity. 
The  grass  does  not  grow  in  the  streets.  The  city  is  be 
come  a  metropolis,  if  it  is  only  the  metropolis  of  Pennsyl 
vania.  Remember,  I  am  not  finding  fault.  I  am  merely 
telling  you  that  fifty  years  ago  Philadelphia  was  a  sweet 
er-smelling,  more  picturesque,  and  a  less  noisy  spot  than 
now.  The  population  that  of  an  important  town,  but  not 
too  populous.  There  were  many  Germans,  few  French 
or  Italians,  some  English,  and  a  rapidly  growing  influx 
of  Hebrews.  But  we  all  mixed  well.  After  the  Native 
American  outburst  in  the  early  forties  the  city  settled 
down  and  until  the  Civil  War  its  peace  and  prosperity 
were  practically  undisturbed.  A  comfortable  city,  with 
plenty  of  elbow-room,  good  cheap  markets,  superior 
cookery,  service  of  a  sort  long  since  vanished,  and  a 
social  life,  which,  while  it  had  its  exclusiveness,  its  snob 
bish  reactions,  did  not  impeach  the  mass  of  the  people 
from  sanely  enjoying  life.  Yes,  I  fully  admit  the  pro 
vinciality.  They  are  still  narrow  -  minded  concerning 
innovation,  particularly  in  the  Seven  Arts.  Philadel 
phia  has  always  been  prudish,  and  not  without  a  taint 
of  hypocrisy.  As  to  the  snobbery,  that  is  the  extension 
of  the  old  Tory  spirit.  Philadelphia  boasted  an  aristoc 
racy  in  the  early  eighteenth  century,  still  boasts  one. 
Families  with  a  pedigree  that  go  back  to  the  glacial  epoch 
continue  to  live  on  side-streets,  poor  but  solemnly  proud. 
It  is  a  flattering  illusion,  this  ancient  family  tree,  and 


76  STEEPLEJACK 

only  cruel  iconoclasts  care  to  destroy  it.  In  the  broader 
aspects  of  life,  in  First  and  Last  Things,  Philadelphia  has 
always  been  pre-eminent:  religion,  patriotism,  the  family. 
For  "new-fangled  heretical  inventions"  she  has  ever 
shown  a  distaste.  She  has  been  called  a  village — a  vil 
lage,  when  she  boasted  a  million  inhabitants — and  she  is 
voted  "slow"  by  visitors  from  the  Bronx  or  Flatbush. 
But  this  is  another  delusion,  like  the  "noiseless"  legend. 
If  the  truth  be  told,  and  it  may  wound  the  moral  sensi 
bilities  of  some,  Philadelphia  is  an  extremely  "lively" 
resort,  from  which  strangers  hurry  to  recuperate  at  ease 
in  Manhattan.  The  hospitality  is  occasionally  excessive, 
the  civic  thirst  abundant.  I  speak  nowise  in  an  apolo 
getic  fashion.  A  great  city  should  live  freely,  largely, 
though  not  loosely.  (Ha  !) 

The  settlement  by  the  Quakers  lent  to  William  Penn's 
Town  a  spirit  of  sobriety.  The  Quaker  bonnets,  dove- 
coloured  gowns,  shad-bellied  coats,  and  broad-brimmed 
hats  were  to  be  seen  everywhere  when  I  was  young. 
The  women,  old  or  youthful,  were  pleasing  to  gaze 
upon;  demure  glances  did  not  detract  from  the  charm 
of  the  girls.  The  graveyard  on  Race  Street,  the  Meeting 
House  on  Fifteenth  Street,  the  silent  services,  where  grace 
descended  without  the  assistance  of  brass  bands,  baboon 
antics,  or  newspaper  notoriety — this  Quaker  cult  was 
very  attractive  in  its  simplicity  and  sincerity.  Down-town 
the  males  of  the  flock  drove  shrewd  bargains.  Not  even 
a  Rothschild  could  beat  a  Quaker  in  the  real-estate  game. 
They  said  "thee"  instead  of  "thou,"  but  the  quaint 
friendliness  of  the  address  excused  its  incorrectness. 
Despite  the  more  vivid,  garish  display  of  colours  and 
exotic  costumes  of  our  streets,  the  absence  of  the  Quaker 
garb  is  a  distinct  loss.  It  was  a  peculiarly  personal  note 


THE  OLD  TOWN  77 

in  the  civic  symphony.     The  Salvation  Army  costume 
by  no  means  replaces  it. 

The  town  was  far  from  being  built  in  1870.  The  sub 
urbs  had  a  disconcerting  way  of  bobbing  up  after  you 
went  further  north  than  Columbia  Avenue.  We  seldom 
dared  West  Philadelphia,  or  the  more  tremendous  neigh 
bourhood  of  the  Neck.  Young  rowdies  made  life  unsafe 
when  out  of  our  own  bailiwick.  I  invariably  took  one 
route  to  school.  I  would  leave  the  house  at  eight,  trav 
erse  Seventh  Street  to  Spring  Garden,  never  forgetting 
to  look  at  the  house  where  lived  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  We 
then  would  traverse  Spring  Garden,  a  street  of  delightful 
shade,  till  we  reached  Broad.  Down  that  wide  avenue 
of  noise  and  bustle  we  went  to  Pine  Street,  and  there  the 
doors  of  the  school  yawned  for  us.  It  took  exactly  one 
hour  for  the  trip,  not  a  slow  record  considering  the  slim- 
ness  of  our  legs.  We  hated  Seventh  Street  because  of 
that  inordinately  long  block  or  square  between  Girard 
Avenue  and  Poplar  Street.  But  before  the  Baldwin 
Locomotive  Works  we  stood  transported.  My  passion 
for  machinery  became  inflamed  by  the  spectacle  of  a 
monster  locomotive,  suspended,  its  wheels  whirling  at 
the  rate  of  sixty  or  seventy  miles  an  hour.  It  was  the 
final  try-out.  With  full  steam  the  machine  stood  on  a 
vast  truck  and  ran  on  imaginary  rails,  officials  and  en 
gineers  in  the  cab.  No  conjurer's  show  or  transformation 
scene  in  pantomime  so  enthralled  me.  I  had  no  premoni 
tion  that  later  I  should  be  a  humble  member  of  the  great 
army  enrolled  under  the  flag  of  Mathias  Baldwin,  Mat 
thew  Baird,  Charles  Parry,  and  others  of  the  extraor 
dinary  organisation,  with  its  three  thousand  employes 
(now  five  times  the  number),  and  its  capacity  for  turning 
out  daily  a  locomotive  completed.  Yes,  the  shops  were 


78  STEEPLEJACK 


a  magnet,  going  and  coming  from  school.  Above  Cal- 
lowhill  Street,  we  met  a  dangerous  obstacle,  the  unpro 
tected  tracks  of  the  Reading  Railroad.  We  had  already 
passed  our  first  on  crossing  the  tracks  of  the  Chestnut 
Hill  and  Germantown  Railroad,  and,  as  a  rule,  we  avoided 
these  by  going  west  via  Spring  Garden.  The  Reading 
Railroad  was  another  fascination,  the  shifting  of  the 
trains  often  made  us  late  at  school,  with  the  usual  penalty 
of  a  pensum  of  a  hundred  lines  after  hours — a  singularly 
idiotic  and  gratuitous  form  of  punishment. 

Another  dangerous  diversion  and  temptation,  was 
Penn  Square,  then  in  four  public  parks,  railed  in,  as  was 
years  before  Union  Square  in  New  York.  Henry  James 
remembers  the  latter,  but  I  don't  think  our  greatest 
master  of  fiction  ever  saw  Penn  Square,  upon  which  now 
stands  the  ugliest  municipal  building  in  the  United  States, 
bar  none.  Even  Camden,  Trenton,  Brooklyn  make  more 
appeal  to  the  aesthetic  eye  than  this  clumsy  congeries  of 
jumbled  architecture  surmounted  by  a  statue  that  bor 
ders  on  the  blasphemous  and  burlesque.  But  at  the 
period  of  which  I  am  talking  the  parks  with  their 
green,  gravelled  walks  proved  a  soothing  interval  in  a 
morning's  walk.  Perhaps  Mr.  James  would  have  found 
these  breathing  spaces  evocative  of  old  London.  The 
dignified  residences,  the  shade  trees,  the  leisurely  traffic, 
the  splendid  sweep  of  Broad  Street,  which  one  could  sur 
vey  north  and  south,  these  were  more  agreeable  than  the 
present  encumbrance,  which  might  have  been  so  modified 
as  to  leave  our  show  street  unimpeded  from  end  to  end. 
Were  these  public  buildings  erected  as  an  ineluctable 
barrier  to  balk  the  hungry  social  aspirations  of  the  out 
casts  north  of  Market  Street?  Or,  were  the  beautiful 
parks  butchered  to  make  a  politicians'  holiday?  Who 


THE  OLD   TOWN  79 

shall  say,  I  don't  know;  but  I  do  know  that  I  was  repri 
manded  more  than  once  a  week  for  tarrying  in  this  de 
lectable  region. 

Below  Market,  Broad  Street  was  lined  with  homes, 
although  the  La  Pierre  House,  then  a  leading  hotel,  stood 
near  Chestnut  Street.  The  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences 
was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  at  the  corner  of  Sansom  Street, 
on  the  west  side  of  Broad  Street.  A  certain  slender, 
agile,  bright-eyed  young  man  was  always  ready  to  help 
us  when  we  sought  paleontological  mysteries.  We  craved 
for  the  buried  bones  of  what  not  impossible  saurian. 
If  there  had  been  a  giant  crustacean  we  should  not  have 
been  surprised.  Everything  happens  in  childhood,  even 
flying-machines  and  pterodactyls.  With  a  patience  that 
was  touching,  Dr.  Edward  J.  Nolan  took  us  from  case 
to  case,  from  room  to  room.  Although  he  may  have 
forgotten  this,  it  is  so,  and  the  now  distinguished  librarian 
and  scientist  still  occupies,  I  am  happy  to  say,  the  same 
position  at  the  new  academy  on  Logan  Square,  although 
he  doesn't  have  the  time  to  pilot  around  his  little  friends, 
for  the  most  part  grey-beards.  Otherwise,  I  don't  find 
Broad  Street  considerably  altered  as  to  facades.  The 
old  Natatorium  is  abolished,  but  the  building  stands 
across  the  street  from  the  Art  Club — that  jewel  of  archi 
tecture,  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  Bellevue-Stratford. 
In  the  Natatorium  the  two  Payne  brothers  taught  the 
young  idea  how  to  swim.  They  were  German,  one 
smooth-spoken  the  other  brusque.  I  can't  recall  which 
was  Jules,  but  he  taught  me  my  first  strokes;  as  in  a 
dream  I  hear  his  guttural:  "Ein,  zwei,  three!"  for  he 
mixed  languages.  We  went  there  daily  in  the  summer 
time.  A  season  ticket  was  not  costly.  You  could  hire 
trunks  or  bring  your  own.  My  chief  memory  of  the 


8o  STEEPLEJACK 

place,  apart  from  many  pleasant  hours  in  the  water, 
was  the  split  skull  I  got  from  diving  in  shallow  water. 
It  served  me  right.  I  was  showing  off,  and  the  conse 
quences  might  have  been  fatal.  I  still  carry  a  part— 
alas !  a  widening  one  with  the  years — in  my  hair  caused 
by  the  scar  I  received.  For  that  trick  I  was  scolded 
by  Mr.  Payne  and  banished  eight  days. 

Years  before  the  advent  of  the  Rathskeller  above 
Chestnut  Street — high  buildings  are  comparatively  re 
cent — there  was  a  small  but  well-known  resort  on  the 
west  side  of  Broad  between  Chestnut  and  Penn  Square. 
It  was  called  "The  Keg,"  and  kept  by  the  Gasslein 
brothers,  Joseph  and  Charles,  the  sons  of  old  man  Gass 
lein,  who  had  a  place  fifty  years  ago  further  up  town  on 
Callowhill  or  Noble  Street.  "The  Keg,"  so  called  be 
cause  of  its  symbolic  barrel  over  the  entrance,  enter 
tained  many  distinguished  visitors.  There  was  a  little 
garden  at  the  rear  with  rustic  tables.  The  cheer  was 
simple,  but  pure — I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  con 
temporary  brews — the  company  varied  and  usually  in 
teresting.  Joe  Gasslein,  since  dead,  was  an  amiable  host. 
I  once  saw  Edwin  Booth  there  in  company  with  his 
manager,  and  to  his  amusement,  as  well  as  sorrow,  he 
heard  spouted  Hamlet's  speech  to  the  players  by  an  old 
fellow-actor,  ruined  by  drink.  A  capital  fellow  and  an 
excellent  mime.  His  first  name  was  Joseph,  and  when 
he  whispered  into  the  sympathetic  ear  of  Mr.  Booth,  it 
was  done  with  the  sinister  air  of  lago  poisoning  Othello's 
mind.  Poor  old  Joe !  He  had  supported  Booth,  Bar 
rett,  John  McCuIIough,  had  been  in  the  company  of 
Adelaide  Neilson.  A  man  of  ability,  educated  in  the  best 
stock  companies,  of  good  presence,  he  let  himself  slip 


THE  OLD  TOWN  81 

down-stream,  and  because  of  a  love-affair.  But  usually 
when  a  man  with  an  alcoholic  breath  tells  me  that  a 
broken  heart  drove  him  to  rum  I  suspect  him.  He  would 
have  drunk  even  if  he  had  married  the  girl.  Women 
may  be  blamed  for  a  lot  of  things,  but  they  are  too  often 
a  convenient  excuse  for  a  thirsty  throat.  Joe  had  that 
in  excelsis.  He  was  playing  at  Wood's  Museum,  at 
Ninth  and  Arch  Streets  at  this  time — I  am  years  ahead 
in  my  narrative — and  played  villains  with  terrific  force. 
A  shocking  villain.  How  we  shivered  at  his  curses  deep 
in  "Jack  Harkaway,"  when,  as  Barboni  the  brigand,  he 
swore  to  be  avenged  on  jesting  Jack.  And  in  "Ruth,  or 
the  Curse  of  Rum,"  how  awful  was  his  remorse,  his  de 
lirium  tremens  and  his  death.  "Father,  dear  father, 
come  home  with  me  now,  the  clock  in  the  steeple  strikes 
one"-— or  was  it  nine?  But  that  touching  verse,  which 
wets  my  eyes  and  dries  my  throat — probably  association 
of  ideas — was  spoken  in  "Ten  Nights  in  a  Barroom," 
not  in  "Ruth."  After  either  piece  Joe  would  appear  at 
the  "Keg"  thirstier  than  ever.  No  wonder!  How  few 
recall  the  old  actor.  Perhaps  John  Gasslein,  perhaps 
Albert  J.  Hetherington — with  his  miraculous  Pepys-Iike 
memory — and  myself.  The  Keg  has  gone  the  way  of 
all  liquid. 

If  the  weather  was  rainy  we  rode,  generally  in  the 
Tenth  Street  cars,  then  crossed  over  Pine  to  Broad.  A 
favourite  return  from  school  was  up  Ninth  Street.  There 
stood  above  Green  Street,  near  the  old  depot — there 
were  depots  in  those  days,  not  stations — a  restaurant 
where  the  fish-cakes  were  ideal.  The  price,  too,  was 
ideal,  ten  cents,  with  oyster  soup  obligingly  thrown  in 
by  the  oysterman.  Did  they  taste?  But  ten-cent 
pieces  were  rare.  In  this  establishment  I  first  heard  re- 


82  STEEPLEJACK 


cited,  "We  don't  give  bread  with  one  fish-ball,"  and  by 
a  school  companion,  Philip  DoIIard.  The  appositeness  of 
the  recitation  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  would  not  give 
us  bread  with  our  fish-cake.  "Ain't  potatoes  as  fillin'  as 
bread  fer  ye?"  demanded  the  guardian.  This  was  about 
1871  or  1872;  for  in  the  same  place  we  heard  the  news 
of  Jim  Fisk's  shooting,  and  the  name  of  Josie  Mansfield. 
Our  curiosity  was  further  piqued  on  learning  that  Ed 
Stokes,  the  slayer,  hailed  from  our  town,  and  was  of 
Quaker  stock.  What  gossip  ensued  on  upper  Franklin 
Street  and  the  vicinage ! 

Another  vanished  landmark  was  the  old  Bellevue,  at 
the  corner  of  Broad  and  Walnut  Streets,  where  now  stands 
the  Manufacturers'  Club.  The  late  George  Boldt  di 
rected  this  hotel,  whose  cuisine  was  noted  for  its  quality. 
It  boasted  many  distinguished  guests,  not  to  mention 
the  Clover  Club  dinners,  famous  for  their  witty  sessions. 
Colonel  William  M.  Bunn,  one  time  Governor  of  Idaho, 
often  presided.  I  recollect  his  lithe  figure  and  charac 
teristic  head,  steel-grey  eyes,  and  imperturbable  bearing. 
He  looked  then  not  unlike  Robert  Mantell.  He  still 
lives.  Fred  Fotterall,  Dick  Townsend,  Ned  Rogers — 
known  as  Montezuma,  and  the  nephew  of  Fairman 
Rogers,  the  noted  driver — frequented  the  Bellevue, 
which  had  an  atmosphere  its  stately  successor  has  not 
duplicated.  (Ah  !  the  pathos  of  distance.)  The  younger 
Rogers  was  a  great  swell,  and  his  abundant  side-whiskers, 
called  "Piccadilly  Weepers"  after  Lord  Dundreary's 
advent,  were  the  envy  of  the  younger  crowd.  (This 
nickname  is  quite  venerable  in  England,  where  as  a 
challenge  the  costers  used  to  plaster  a  curl  of  hair  on 
either  side  of  their  temples,  and  call  the  ornaments  "New 
gate  Knockers" — in  French  the  "bullies"  of  the  Fau- 


THE  OLD  TOWN  83 

bourgs  call  them  "Accroche-Coeurs,"  i.  e.,  heart-hookers.) 
The  blond  magnificence  of  Montezuma  Rogers  made  my 
heart  beat.  He  seemed  to  step  from  a  page  of  Ouida, 
illustrated  by  George  du  Maurier.  Incidentally  I  may 
remark  that  I  owed  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  he  saved 
me  from  a  nasty  fall  down  an  open  trap  in  front  of  Lip- 
pincott's  book-shop  where  I  had  been  staring  at  titles. 
He  saw  me  backing  towards  the  trap  and  rapped  over 
my  heedless  shoulders  his  dandy's  stick,  saying  to  Dick 
Townsend :  "  There's  a  Johnny  Look-in-the-Air  for  you  ! " 
Dazzled  by  his  "weepers,"  I  didn't  have  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  blurt  out  my  thanks.  A  handsome  trio, 
Rogers,  Fotterall,  and  Townsend;  all  have  since  crossed 
the  great  divide.  Another  good-looking  set  was  com 
posed  of  Stephen  Whitman,  Emile  Perdriaux,  and  Prince 
Iturbide,  the  latter  a  gay  young  Mexican,  who  seemed  as 
if  he  had  just  deserted  the  Paris  boulevards.  AH  these 
men  went  to  the  Bellevue.  So  did  Brooke  Dolan,  Frank 
McLaughlin,  Frank  Ash,  Paul  Huneker,  Burt  Lee,  and 
other  kindred  souls.  I  never  discovered  who  threw  the 
big  and  costly  crystal  punch-bowl  of  the  Bellevue  into 
the  middle  of  Broad  Street,  and  then  danced  some  sort 
of  a  savage  ritual  over  the  fragments.  Whenever  I  ques 
tioned  Mr.  Boldt  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria  his  memory 
would  become  hazy.  But  he  did  tell  me  who  footed  the 
by  no  means  insignificant  bill.  There  were  ructions  and 
the  rumour  of  ructions  for  a  long  time. 

Here  are  a  few  additional  names  in  the  old  Arch  Street 
stock:  Ada  Rehan  (season  1875-6),  F.  F.  Mackay, 
Thayer,  Adam  Everly,  the  elder  Davidge,  Charles  Thorne, 
Louis  James  and  Fanny  Davenport.  Some  of  these  be 
came  famous  at  Daly's  and  Palmer's.  Bob  Craig  was 
the  Dick  Swiveller  to  Lotta's  Little  Nell.  His  Toodles 


84  STEEPLEJACK 


and  Bob  Acres  only  fell  short  of  Clarke's  and  Jefferson's. 
Think  of  Dombey  and  Son  with  John  Brougham,  as 
Captain  Cuttle,  supporting  Mrs.  Drew.  Barton  Hill  was 
versatile,  as  his  "Rosedale,  or  The  Rifle  Ball"  and  Shake 
spearean  roles  demonstrated.  Edwin  Adams  played  at 
the  Arch  in  "Dead  Heart,"  Charles  Mathews,  too,  in 
"A  Dress  Rehearsal,"  though  I  confess  I  didn't  see  him. 
Lewis  Baker  and  his  wife  were  in  the  company.  The 
Walnut  Street  Theatre  had  a  capital  stock,  the  Walcots, 
Effie  Germon — sister-in-law  of  Adelina  Patti — Roland 
Reed,  Griffith,  Annie  Ward  Tiffany;  Roland  Reed  was 
"the  young  man  by  the  name  of  Guppy,"  and  Mrs. 
Walcot  was  the  Jo  in  "Bleak  House."  Edwin  Forrest 
played  his  farewell  performances  at  the  Walnut,  in  Cori- 
olanus  and  Jack  Cade.  John  Sleeper  Clarke  as  Toodles 
and  Dr.  Pangloss  was  irresistible.  At  the  Chestnut 
Street  Theatre,  where  I  made  my  debut  as  a  dramatic 
critic  at  ten,  I  saw  my  first  play,  or  pantomime.  What 
was  "The  Three  Red  Men"?  Blue  fire  and  heroics 
probably.  Later  the  stock  was  composed  of  such  names 
as  Wilbur  Lennox,  Frank  Mordaunt,  Josie  Orton,  in 
"The  Octoroon,"  put  on  for  a  run;  then  the  Gemmill 
regime;  W.  E.  Sheridan,  Lily  Glover,  Frank  Norris, 
George  Hoey,  and  others  I've  forgotten.  I  do  remember, 
however,  the  Louis  XI  of  Sheridan,  also  his  Sir  Giles 
Overreach  in  "A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  though 
he  never  excelled  E.  L.  Davenport  in  the  role.  Charlotte 
Cushman  I  saw  once,  as  Meg  Merrilees,  but  she  was  too 
old  for  my  young  eyes,  a  hag  spouting  fire  and  fury,  a 
terrible  creature,  who  caused  me  more  than  one  night 
mare.  "Our  Boys"  at  the  same  theatre  in  1876  ran  six 
months,  for  those  times  a  long  run.  George  Holland  was 
in  the  cast.  E.  L.  Davenport  is  one  of  my  choice  mem- 


THE  OLD  TOWN  85 

orics.    Next  to  Salvini's  and  Booth's  I  never  enjoyed 

such  acting.  The  summit  of  intellect  and  emotion  was 
never  quite  compassed,  hut  lo  tell  the  truth,  I  liked  him 

hotter  than   I   did  Henry   Irving.    Davenport,   it  has 

always  seemed  lo  me,  never  received  his  critical  due. 
Tor  most  theatre-goers  in  I  lie  nineties  he  was  only  the. 
father  ol  I'anny  Davenport  not  a  remarkahle  artiste', 
though  she  was  handsome  and  intelligent. 

Davenport  had  not  the  "divine  spark,"  hut.  he  gave 
his  audiences  a  very  lair  imitation  ol  it.  lie  was  schol 
arly,  lie  was  also  poetic-  and  passionate'  as  Hamlet, 
while  his  Richelieu  was  only  topped  by  Booth's.  To  sec 
him  play  William  in  "Black-Lycd  Susan"  and  Sir  Cilcs 
at  one  performance  w.'is  a  treat.  His  Brutus,  too,  his 
Othello,  and  his  Bill  Sykes  could  they  he  matched  in 
artistry  and  verisimilitude  to-day?  Ills  Bill  Sykes  was 
simply  nerve-shattering.  Prank  Mordaunt's  assumption 
paled  hy  comparison.  I4'.  l;.  Maekay  was  a  finished 
actor.  Do  you  remember  his  Lceles?  I  recall  the 
W  (.'Stern  Sisters,  Lucille  and  Helen.  Lucille  played 
Last  Lynne;  Mrs.  D.  P.  Bowers  was  striking  in  "Lady 
Audlcy's  Secret."  Helen  Western  was  a  celebrated 
Ma/eppa  Adah  Isaacs  Menken,  of  course,  the  greatest 

at  the  old  Continental,  Walnut,  and  Lighl.h  Streets. 
Those  were  the  exciting  days  of  "The  French  Spy," 
'The  Wild  Horse  of  Tarlary,"  and  Count  Johannes,  a 
veritable  "Crushed  Tragedian,"  who  played  behind  a 
net,  because  ol  the  enthusiastic'  generosity  of  his  audi 
ences  in  I  he  mall  cr  ol  bilious  eggs,  onions,  and  hard  sand. 
And  llughcy  Dougherty  sang,  <4  Sweet  Mvelina"  at 
Carncross  and  Dixies.  Ah  me!  I  suppose  some  ol 
these  plays  would  be  hooted  oil  the  boards  to-day,  but 
they  were  good  bin  forty  years  ago. 


VIII 
I  AM  A  PENMAN 

To  recapture  the  first  careless  rapture,  as  Browning 
sings,  is  not  easy,  if  indeed,  possible.  What  the  critics 
call  the  innocence  of  the  eye  is  seldom  renewed.  Some 
artists  possessed  the  virtue  their  life  long;  Titian  and 
Frans  Hals,  for  example.  Any  one  who  has  visited 
Haarlem  will  remember  that  veracious  group  of  old 
Dutch  ladies  painted  when  the  artist  was  past  eighty — 
and  the  town  drunkard !  Well,  those  were  exceptions. 
Lesser  mortals  must  be  contented  with  only  one  optical 
virginity,  and  if  that  is  sufficiently  vivid  to  accompany 
him  on  his  progress  to  the  Hollow  Vale  he  should  not 
complain.  With  me  memories  of  inanimate  objects, 
houses,  streets,  trees,  sounds  and  scents  are  in  the  nature 
of  hallucinations.  They  appear  in  puissant  relief.  But  to 
pin  down  to  paper  these  waking  dreams,  that's  the  rub. 
For  instance,  there  are  bosky  avenues  on  the  west  drive 
of  Fairmount  Park  through  which  I  could  find  my  way 
blindfolded  on  a  dark,  stormy  night.  And  a  certain 
bench,  just  below  Strawberry  Mansion  on  which  I  sat 
of  moonlit  summer  nights — how  many  years  ago? — and 
held  hands  with  a  girl  who  had  the  golden  tresses  of  the 
Venetian  school;  Giorgione,  Paris  Bordone,  Tiziano. 
(Elaine !  Elaine !)  That  bench  I  see  in  all  its  enchant 
ing  angularities  whenever  I  close  my  eyes  and  ring  up 
my  cerebral  Central,  Fairmount  Park,  1880. 

After  I  had  attained  the  age  of  unreason,  which  sets 
in  with  a  man  at  his  fifteenth  year,  or  thereabouts,  I  was 

86 


I   AM  A   PENMAN  87 

discovered  as  a  penman  whose  handwriting  bid  fair  to 
outshine  in  illegibility  the  classic  scrawl  of  Horace  Greeley 
(you  have  read  Mark  Twain?).  Since  then  every  news 
paper  office  that  I  worked  in  has  made  a  rediscovery  of 
this  disconcerting  fact:  The  Evening  Bulletin,  The  Re 
corder,  The  Morning  Advertiser,  The  Sun,  The  Times,  and 
The  Press  chapels  recognise  my  penmanship  a  block 
away.  There  was  a  standard  joke  in  one  composing- 
room;  the  compositor  who  set  up  my  copy,  and  the 
proofreader  who  corrected  it — poor,  dear  chaps — were 
always  pensioned  by  the  proprietor  when  they  went  to 
the  blind  asylum.  Gallows-humour,  this,  but  it  threw 
some  light  on  my  case.  My  mother  realised  that  my 
script  was  impossible — I  had  recovered  from  the  loco 
motive  craze — and  after  discussion  I  was  sent  to  the 
writing  academy  of  Samuel  Dickson  on  Dock  near  Wal 
nut  Street.  He  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  my  father, 
and  one  morning  after  commending  me  to  his  good  graces 
my  father  left  me  in  anything  but  a  cheerful  mood,  con 
fronted  by  paper  and  pens,  the  sight  of  which  then  pro 
duced  nausea,  as  they  even  now  do,  only  I  call  it  eye- 
strain;  it  sounds  more  important,  more  pathological, 
when  it  is  really  old-fashioned  laziness.  To  reach  Dr. 
Dickson's  Academy — a  pretentious  title  for  shabby 
chambers — I  daily  walked  down  Seventh  Street,  and 
turned  eastward  at  Girard  Avenue.  The  old  market 
houses,  low,  shambling,  one-story  structures,  ran  for 
blocks  as  far  as  Eighth  Street  or  Ninth  Street — the  Chest 
nut  Hill  Railroad  tracks;  perhaps  they  extended  further, 
even  as  far  as  Twelfth  Street,  but  I'm  not  sure.  They 
were  jolly,  bustling  resorts  for  all  the  housewives  in  the 
ward.  Walking  down  the  avenue,  I  would  stop  at  St. 
Peter's  German  Church,  go  in  sometimes,  not  to  pray, 


88  STEEPLEJACK 


but  to  hear  old  Pop  Hertel  play  the  organ,  an  instrument 
of  which  I  am  fond.  There  was  a  candy  shop  at  the 
corner  of  Fifth  Street,  where  gingerbread  was  to  be  had 
at  fabulously  low  prices.  The  beldame  who  kept  the 
shop  was  a  creature  who  alternately  bullied  and  wheedled 
her  childish  clientele.  Her  usual  expression  reminded  me 
of  the  sour-sweet  taste  of  cream  thunder-turned.  She 
was  of  German  origin  and  the  school  children  said  she  was 
a  witch,  a  gingerbread  witch.  Fiercely  she  would  lean 
and  ask:  "Vot  ye  vant?"  to  which  the  inevitable  an 
swer  was:  "Vot  ye  got?"  "Vot  ye  want?"  she  would 
repeat  in  menacing  tones.  "Vot  ye  got?"  was  the  Irish 
echo.  This  silly  litany  would  go  on  sometimes  for  five 
minutes.  Her  features  never  changed,  her  eyes  never 
twinkled,  yet  I  believe  she  enjoyed  the  game  of  question 
and  answer,  though  once  I  saw  her  take  off  her  wooden 
shoe  and  chase  an  irreverent  boy  who  dared  to  upset 
her  scheme  by  asking  first  "Vot  ye  vant?"  This  an 
noyed  her;  like  Sarah  Battle  at  whist,  she  must  have  the 
"rigour  of  the  game,"  as  well  as  a  clean  hearth. 

Slowly  sauntering  down  Fifth  Street,  I  would  proceed 
as  if  on  a  visit  to  the  dentist.  When  I  arrived  at  Fair- 
mount  Avenue,  I  would  gaze  across  the  street  at  the 
residence  of  the  Hon.  Daniel  M.  Fox,  once  Mayor  of  the 
city,  and  would  note  the  window  in  his  bedroom,  from 
which  on  election  night  he  made  a  speech  to  his  con 
stituents.  Old  York  Road  achieved  I  footed  down  its 
inviting  width.  There  was  at  the  junction  of  Fifth 
Street  and  the  Road  the  Betz  Brewery.  Only  a  year 
ago  I  retraced  my  early  footsteps,  but  my  souvenirs  were 
pleasanter  than  the  realities  of  1918.  Old  York  Road 
had  well  kept  residences  in  my  youth;  now  the  entire 
thoroughfare  is  sadly  down  at  the  heels.  Shabby  is, 


I   AM  A  PENMAN  89 


perhaps,  too  complimentary  a  word  for  it.  I  noticed 
that  our  East  Side  is  rapidly  keeping  company  with  New 
York's.  After  a  visit  to  Essex  and  Grand  Streets  in 
1908,  Henry  James  in  his  American  Scene  called  the 
East  Side,  "Jerusalem  Disinfected."  He  exaggerated 
slightly,  though  not  as  to  racial  roots.  In  certain  quar 
ters  of  our  town  you  feel  as  if  in  some  foreign  ghetto; 
Vienna,  Budapest,  Cracow,  Warsaw.  I  was  depressed 
by  my  walk;  the  poverty,  the  absence  of  foliage,  the 
crowds,  all  reminded  me  of  the  Yiddish  belt  in  New 
York.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  Italian  colony  which  is 
elsewhere.  Franklin  Square  had  nicely  kept  residences, 
but  no  longer,  though  the  old  Fox  mansion  on  Fifth 
Street  is  precisely  as  it  was.  York  Road  alone  has 
changed.  On  Sixth  Street  my  eyes  were  astonished  by 
the  name  of  Martin  Wisler  over  a  furniture  wareroom. 
Impossible !  I  went  to  the  door  on  the  sill  of  which 
stood  a  young  man  with  blond  curly  hair.  Again  im 
possible  !  In  the  seventies  I  often  passed  this  es 
tablishment  and  always  saluted  by  his  name,  young 
Wisler,  cheerful,  blond,  curly-haired.  There  he  stood, 
the  same  lad  with  the  jolly  smile,  and  yet  he  was  differ 
ent;  years  bring  their  changes.  I  inquired  of  him  his 
name.  He  told  me.  He  was  a  Wisler.  "My  father's 
inside  at  his  desk.  Go  in,  he  will  be  glad  to  see  an  old 
friend;  you  won't  find  him  much  changed."  I  peeped  in. 
Yes,  there  sat  Martin  Wisler,  and  he  did  look  many  years 
younger  than  he  should  have,  considering  that  he  was 
my  contemporary.  But  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  enter. 
I  feared  I  was  the  one  who  had  changed,  feared  that  he 
wouldn't  remember  me  unless  I  told  my  name.  So  I 
whispered  to  his  son:  "Another  time,  your  father  is 
busy.  Never  mind  my  name.  I'll  surprise  him  again," 


90  STEEPLEJACK 

and  I  saved  myself  by  flight.     I  was  a  moral  coward 
that  afternoon.     Or  was  it  vanity? 

I  would  pass  St.  Augustine's,  with  its  dramatic  history 
—how  often  has  my  mother  told  of  the  wild  night  when 
it  burned  down  to  the  drunken  howls  of  frenzied  "native" 
Americans.  Finally,  at  Walnut  where  it  debouches  into 
Dock,  I  could  see  my  goal,  my  "jail"  I  called  it.  Dock 
Street  and  its  surroundings  have  changed  surprisingly 
little.  The  house  where  lived  my  writing-master  still 
stands,  and  still  needs  a  coat  of  paint.  When  I  would 
enter  on  the  second  floor  there  sat  a  portly,  middle-aged 
gentleman  of  negro  strain.  His  broad  face,  flat  nose, 
eyes  showing  plenty  of  white,  were  unmistakably  negroid, 
which  his  shining,  coffee-coloured  skin  did  not  deny. 
He  always  wore  his  hat,  indoors  and  out,  as  Walt  Whitman 
would  say.  I  was  told  the  reason.  His  hair  was  kinky; 
hence  the  hat.  It  was  a  tall  stovepipe  of  ancient  lineage, 
and  was  almost  covered  by  a  deep  mourning-band.  He 
was  probably  a  native  of  an  English-speaking  West 
Indian  Island.  His  speech  was  excellent  English,  yet 
softly  streaked  by  something  exotic.  He  used  big  words. 
He  wrote  formidable  phrases.  His  handwriting  was,  in 
my  eyes,  extraordinary.  A  master  of  all  styles  from  the 
conventional  Spencerian  to  the  ornamental  letters  used 
in  addresses,  testimonials,  and  the  like;  he  was  a  first- 
class  craftsman.  "A  clear  round  hand,  my  boy,"  he 
would  say  to  me,  though  his  kindly  expression  would  be 
replaced  by  a  vexed  one  after  he  watched  my  futile  at 
tempts.  He  would  then  sigh,  remove  his  owlish  horn 
spectacles,  wipe  his  vast  forehead  without  removing  that 
eternal  hat,  and  then,  without  modulation  whatsoever, 
would  exclaim:  "Ah!  James,  the  Magorians,  James.  If 
it  wasn't  for  those  Magorians,  life  would  be  all  skittles 


I   AM  A  PENMAN  91 

and  beer."  And  I,  thinking  this  a  quotation,  would  en 
courage  him  with  a  wan  smile.  The  Magorians !  What 
the  deuce  were  Magorians?  I  often  puzzled  over  this 
enigma  of  the  Dock  Street  sphinx.  The  Magorians ! 
Were  they  the  Babylonish  scarlet-women  from  the  Seven 
Hills?  I  never  encountered  painted  Jezebels  on  Dock 
Street,  unless  the  limber-hipped,  unkempt  fishwives  who 
paraded  after  dark  in  quest  of  fresh  air,  not  human  bait. 
What  did  old  man  Dickson  mean  by  the  Magorians?  I 
did  not  dare  ask  him  because  he  was  a  Turveydrop  in 
deportment,  a  Turveydrop  of  the  ink-well  that  Dickens 
would  have  appreciated.  I  asked  my  elders  but  they  all 
leaned  heavily  on  the  scarlet-woman  theory,  especially 
William  Hewitt,  the  portraitist.  "He  means  the  girls," 
he  would  mutter.  If  so,  why  then  the  British  symbol  of 
skittles  and  beer?  Even  at  that  ingenuous  age  girls,  and 
skittles,  and  beer  formed  an  indissoluble  trinity.  And 
why  precisely  Magorians — a  lurid,  suggestive  word,  a 
planetary  word.  I  remembered  having  read  a  tale  by 
Douglas  Jerrold,  its  title  forgotten,  which  described  a 
fashionable  soiree  in  London.  At  the  height  of  the  fes 
tivities,  as  the  society  reporter  would  say,  a  little  fusty 
old  fellow  attired  as  a  cobbler  appeared  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  made  his  way  to  the  hostess,  blazing  in  her 
diamonds,  arrayed  like  a  queen.  Squatting  before  her 
in  true  shoemaker  pose,  he  shook  his  forefinger  at  her: 
"  Now  Sue,"  he  said,  "  now  Sue,  this  will  never  do. 
Put  on  your  clothes  and  come  home."  (Or  words  to 
that  effect.)  The  denouement?  There  was  none.  She 
quickly  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  few  minutes  en 
veloped  in  a  shawl  (1850),  and  white- faced  and  with 
staring  eyes  went  away  with  the  mysterious  stranger. 
Her  husband?  Or  did  she  owe  him  a  hopeless  bill  for 


92  STEEPLEJACK 


cobbling?  Jerrold  doesn't  explain.  The  story  left  a 
queer  taste  in  my  memory.  So  did  the  Magorians.  In 
the  meantime  my  handwriting  steadily  became  worse. 
It's  as  bad  now  as  it  was  four  decades  ago,  and  as  I  can't 
use  a  clanking  typewriter,  and  won't  dictate,  I  have  been 
forced  to  write  millions  of  words.  And  yet  I  call  myself 
lazy.  Basta ! 

Despite  the  talk  about  living  in  the  open  air  and 
active  sports,  I  think  the  boys  of  my  day  were  hardier 
and  less  spoiled.  Of  the  girls  I  can't  speak  with  au 
thority.  No  doubt  they  were  more  coddled,  more  pro 
tected  then,  and  the  voice  of  the  chaperone  was  heard 
in  the  land.  For  a  young  woman  to  go  alone  with  her 
young  man  to  a  theatre  or  a  ball  would  have  hopelessly 
riddled  her  reputation.  The  young  ladies  of  various  fash 
ionable  boarding-schools  were  given  their  morning  and 
afternoon  walk  up  and  down  Walnut  Street,  or  around 
Rittenhouse  Square,  which  like  Logan,  was  railed  in. 
These  processions  with  the  girls  paired-off  were  events 
for  the  young  chaps.  What  pretty  girls  they  were ! 
(Dostoievsky  has  written:  there  are  no  old  women;  an 
old  woman  is  younger  than  an  old  man.)  Anyhow,  the 
girls  were  pretty  then.  The  Chegaray  Institute  in  par 
ticular  piqued  our  juvenile  gallants.  This  choir  of 
Iambs  were  fleecier,  softer-eyed,  plumper  and  comelier 
than  other  flocks.  They  had  the  innocence  of  the  ser 
pent,  the  wisdom  of  the  dove.  They  never  flirted.  They 
only  looked  at  you.  And  then  your  aggressive  mas 
culinity  crumpled  before  the  idol.  Occasionally,  in  the 
spring  of  the  year,  when  the  moon  was  full,  they  be 
trayed  a  disposition  to  throw  their  little  bonnets  over 
the  windmill,  which  was  natural;  but  Madame  Chegaray, 
who  was  an  experienced  tactician,  knew  how  to  handle 


I   AM  A   PENMAN  93 

the  situation.  She  grimly  told  any  mother  that  when 
the  crisis  became  acute  she  dosed  her  refractory  patients 
with  a  good,  old-fashioner1  remedy,  brimstone  and 
molasses.  The  rest  is  silence. 


IX 

THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  DAY 

The  startling  sensations  of  the  day  such  as  the  Fisk- 
Stokes  shooting,  the  James  Gordon  Bennett- Fred-May 
duel,  the  cataclysmic  earthquake  and  tidal  wave  in  Peru 
(1868)  when  an  American  battleship  was  safely  landed 
in  the  hills  among  the  trees  far  from  the  water,  Colonel 
Bob  IngersoIPs  lectures,  temperance  revivals,  the  Keeley 
motor,  the  "new"  dietary  of  Dio  Lewis,  bustles,  chignons, 
and  the  divorce  of  Adelina  Patti  from  her  rake,  Marquis 
de  Caux,  the  Beecher-Tilton  case,  Lydia  Thompson's 
Blondes,  these  and  a  thousand  others  fluttered  our  ex 
citable  young  brains.  I  regret  now  not  having  kept  a 
commonplace-book.  It  would  prove  a  guide  for  a  rapidly 
failing  memory.  I  do,  however,  remember  that  after 
Fred  May  cowhided  Bennett  on  the  sidewalk  of  the 
Union  Club,  there  was  a  challenge,  and  the  duel  came 
off  somewhere  in  Maryland.  This  was  denied  the  other 
day  when  Bennett  died.  He  had  been  engaged  to  Miss 
Caroline  May,  the  sister  of  the  aggressor,  who  only  did 
what  any  other  brother  should  have  done.  James  Gor 
don  Bennett,  as  a  young  man,  was  heroic  in  his  cups; 
that  is,  his  capacity  was  that  of  a  hero.  Byron  or  Landor 
said  that  brandy  was  fit  for  heroes.  It  was  really  old 
Sam  Johnson  who  said  it  first.  He  didn't  know  the 
proprietor  of  the  Herald  who  was  heroic  with  champagne 
as  well  as  brandy.  Bennett  often  repeated,  and  accord 
ing  to  the  newspapers  of  the  period — I  read  the  Phila 
delphia  Times9  account — he  told  Fred  May  he  was  sorry, 

94 


THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  DAY  95 

that  he  wasn't  worthy  of  his  sister;  but  later  said  "that 
he  would  give  any  man  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  to 
take  her  off  his  hands"  (Times').  He  was  cowhided  for 
this,  and  the  duel  followed — a  French  duel,  I  suppose,  as 
the  participants  lived  many  years.  This  was  one  episode 
in  the  extraordinary  career  of  that  extraordinary  man, 
"Commodore"  Bennett,  who  was  surely  made  to  figure 
in  fiction  or  drama. 

The  Peruvian  earthquake  at  Arica  caused  as  much 
excitement  as  the  one  in  San  Francisco.  As  for  "Bob" 
IngersoII  and  his  warmed-over  Voltaire  and  Huxley,  I 
can  only  speak  by  repute.  He  raised  an  awful  rumpus, 
more  of  a  rumpus  than  even  Darwin,  Tyndall,  and  Hux 
ley  combined.  Those  were  the  days  of  Star  -  course 
lectures.  T.  B.  Pugh,  or  Major  Pond  managed  them. 
We  had  Gough,  the  temperance  agitator,  Proctor,  the 
English  astronomer,  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Scott-Siddons, 
lustrous-eyed,  but  lacking  dramatic  temperament,  the 
South  American  pianiste,  Teresita  Carreno,  another 
beauty,  Seraphael,  the  boy-wonder  (really  Henry  Waller, 
the  English  pianist,  said  to  be  a  scion  of  royalty;  the 
"son  of  the  P-e  of  W-s,"  as  the  society  journals  subtly 
put  it),  Leopold  Lichtenberg,  the  biggest  violin  talent 
of  the  country,  the  elder  Bellew  in  Shakespearean  read 
ings — and  scholarly  readings  they  proved — and  how 
many  others?  I  remember  at  one  of  these  affairs — not 
quite  so  ghastly  as  Chautauqua  lyceum  courses — a  pro 
hibition  humbug  drank  water  all  evening,  and  at  the  close 
of  his  speech  he  was  so  "het  up"  by  enthusiasm  for  the 
cause  that  he  stumbled  and  fell  as  he  left  the  stage. 
The  curtain  was  quickly  rung  down.  Gin,  like  water, 
is  colourless.  Father  "Tom"  Burke  filled  us  with  joy 
by  his  attacks  on  the  "Sassenach."  Ireland  is  always 


96  STEEPLEJACK 


about  to  be,  but  never  is  free.  We  went  to  the  circus, 
then  Adam  Forepaugh's,  on  North  Broad  Street,  and 
Smith's  Island,  in  the  Delaware,  was  a  haven  of  happi 
ness.  A  Coney  Island  in  miniature,  without  its  dis 
agreeable  drawbacks,  we  swam  and  were  at  peace  with 
the  world.  But  the  island  was  a  menace  to  navigation, 
and  it,  too,  disappeared,  like  so  many  other  pleasant 
things.  Nor  should  I  forget  the  excursions  on  the  little 
Schuylkill  River  steamboats. 

Fairmount  Park,  after  Independence  Hall,  the  crown 
ing  glory  of  Philadelphia,  was  then  as  now  a  wonderful 
playground.  The  approaches  to  it  were  not  imposing, 
as  they  will  be  when  the  new  boulevard  is  completed. 
The  entrance  at  Callowhill  Street  was  distinctly  depress 
ing;  dark,  damp,  dirty;  but  the  old  waterworks,  the 
mysterious  wheels,  above  all,  the  smell  of  brackish  water, 
stirred  our  childish  imaginations.  What  a  pretty  walk 
was  that  along  the  river  till  the  last  boat-clubhouse  was 
passed.  Trotting  horses  attached  to  modish  traps, 
buggies,  and  the  selfish  sulky,  with  its  solitary  driver, 
flew  by,  harness  shining,  the  metal  on  the  spokes  glitter 
ing  in  the  sunshine,  which  seemed  more  suave  than  now. 
Philadelphia  summers  are  trying  because  of  their  per 
sistent  sultriness.  There  is  no  salty  sea-breeze  at  sun 
down  to  relieve  the  heated  atmosphere,  as  in  luckier 
Gotham.  Yet  we  never  suffered.  Children  seldom  do. 
We  jumped  and  romped,  rolled  hoops,  shot  our  marbles, 
kept  our  nurses  shivering  with  fright  when  we  fell  over 
board  in  the  park  fountains,  and  at  the  end  of  "a  perfect 
day,"  we  would  run  home  all  the  way  from  Lemon  Hill, 
eat  till  our  tiny  waists  would  bloat,  go  to  bed  and  sleep 
the  untroubled  sleep  of  little  devils. 

The    park    seemed    more    umbrageous    then;     I    say 


THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  DAY  97 

"seemed"  for  it  is  precisely  the  same,  probably  plus 
more  trees,  and  if  I  seem  to  make  unfavourable  com 
parison  it  is  only  "seeming."  Sans  teeth,  sans  hair, 
sans  strength  and  spirits,  his  youth  to  an  old  man  is 
overflowing  with  honey  and  sap.  The  wild  locusts  and 
the  seamy  side  of  disillusionment  come  later.  We  pic 
nicked  on  Lemon  Hill,  we  trooped  to  Strawberry  Man 
sion  when  Levy  played  his  golden-toned  cornet.  We  ate 
catfish  and  waffles  on  the  picturesque  banks  of  Wissa- 
hickon  Creek,  and  gorged  planked  shad  at  Gloucester. 
To  fish  in  the  Wissahickon  was  a  joy,  with  Manayunk 
across  the  ocean.  The  annual  regattas  on  the  Schuylkill 
were  religiously  followed.  Didn't  I  have  a  brother  a 
referee  on  the  judges'  boat  or  in  the  singles;  two  brothers 
in  fact?  With  what  nervous  anticipation  we  would 
stand  at  the  end  of  the  course  and  watch  for  the  winner ! 
When  the  Malta  boys  won,  our  throats  automatically 
released  a  yell,  a  rebel  yell,  at  that.  The  Centennial  re 
gatta  especially  appealed  to  us,  for  a  home  crew — I've 
forgotten  the  club — beat  the  British  visitors.  From 
Schuylkill  Falls  to  Rockland  Bridge,  the  course  was 
black  with  people.  But  the  London  Rowing  Club  beat 
Yale  by  a  second,  and  there  was  gloom  in  the  camp. 
For  baseball  I  never  entertained  the  same  admiration. 
It  was  too  violent,  but  I  was  mildly  interested  in  the 
Red  Sox  and  similar  organisations. 

As  the  population  of  the  city  was  so  much  less  than 
to-day's  you  could  go  for  miles  in  the  park  and  meet 
but  few  folk.  Picnics  were  quite  the  thing.  There  were 
no  trolleys;  as  the  park  was  near,  and  we  usually  walked. 
I  notice  now  that  a  regrettable  puritanical  spirit  has 
turned  this  leafy  paradise  into  a  thirsty  desert.  That's 
the  way  to  do  it.  Make  people  uncomfortable.  Tell 


98  STEEPLEJACK 


them  if  they  are  thirsty  to  drink  lemonade  or  gassy 
soda  water.  Muzzle  them  with  good  advice,  but  for 
bid  them  burgundy  and  terrapin,  or  pretzels  and  beer. 
As  for  beer,  poor,  vulgar,  despised  beverage,  that  is 
being  chased  off  thu  globe.  Yet  Philadelphia  was  famous 
throughout  the  world  for  its  brews.  Old  Brewerytown 
may  go  but  not  its  memories.  There  was  a  certain 
little  garden  attached  to  Conrad's  brewery  on  West 
Poplar  Street,  long  since  disappeared,  where  of  Sunday 
afternoons  you  fancied  yourself  in  Europe.  I  maintain 
that  simple  pleasures  of  this  sort  react  more  favourably 
on  civic  life  than  despotic  measures.  You  can't  sup 
press  legitimate  thirst,  but  you  can  follow  the  example 
of  continental  nations  and  canalise  it;  make  it  sociable 
and  enjoyable.  Catfish  and  waffles  without  light  wine 
or  beer  is  like  Wissahickon  without  its  historical  creek. 
Oh  !  America  !  Happy  hunting-ground  for  humbug,  hys 
teria,  and  hypocrisy.  Vacations  were  sometimes  spent 
at  Chestnut  Hill,  at  Squan  River,  or  Atlantic  City— 
preferably  the  latter.  We  usually  victimised  our  Aunt 
Eliza,  who  lived  on  Atlantic  Avenue — Pacific  Avenue  was 
a  mere  sketch.  You  could  see  the  ocean  from  your 
back  porch  on  Atlantic  Avenue.  When,  a  few  years  ago, 
I  flew  over  the  Island  in  Beryl  Kendrick's  hydroplane, 
I  noted  the  changes  in  the  coast-line.  The  Thoroughfare 
is  hardly  the  same;  Brigantine  Beach  is  slowly  being 
brought  closer  by  sand  bars.  But  the  boardwalk  is 
unique.  It  was  a  poor  affair  fifty  years  ago — for  it  is  a 
half-century  since  I  climbed  the  tower  of  the  lighthouse. 
Cape  May,  on  the  other  hand,  has  changed,  but  not  for 
the  better.  It  was  " Queen  of  the  watering-places"  on 
this  New  Jersey  coast  when  Atlantic  City  was  a  modest 
fishing  resort.  However,  our  favourite  playground  was 


THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  DAY  99 

Fair-mount  Park,  "annihilating  all  that's  made,  to  a 
green  thought  in  a  green  shade,"  as  old  Andrew  Marvell 
sang.  (Young  Kendrick  fell  last  June  and  was  killed.) 

In  a  word,  life  in  Philadelphia  ran  on  oiled  wheels. 
Even  to-day,  after  the  huge  clatter  of  New  York,  and 
despite  its  own  contribution  to  the  Moloch  of  Noise, 
there  is  something  mellow  and  human  about  the  drowsy 
hum  of  Chestnut,  the  genteel  reaches  of  Walnut,  the  neat 
frontage  of  Spruce  Streets.  The  stranger  is  at  the  first 
bored,  then  lulled,  at  last  amused  by  our  intimate  life. 
London  or  The  Hague  recalls  Philadelphia  to  some  of 
us.  The  fine  disdainful  air  of  Locust  Street,  the  curi 
ously  constrained  attitude  of  the  brick  houses  on  side 
streets — as  if  deferentially  listening  to  the  snobbish  back 
yard  remarks  of  their  statelier  neighbours,  the  brown- 
stone  fagades — these  things  demand  the  descriptive  genius 
of  a  Dickens  to  make  them  real;  Dickens  who  discerned 
human  expression  in  door-knockers,  and  on  the  faces  of 
lean,  lonely,  twilight-haunted  houses.  The  water-fronts 
fascinated  me.  Port  Richmond  on  a  misty  day  would 
recall  London,  which  city  I  had  never  seen,  but  secretly 
worshipped.  I  have  since  wondered  at  this  curious 
mental  transposition  of  cities  and  the  sensations  aroused 
by  them;  particularly  the  slightly  perverse  wish  to  be 
at  home  when  in  Europe.  Philadelphia  never  seemed  so 
desirable  as  when  I  lived  in  Paris.  Nostalgia?  Perhaps. 
But  an  absurd  one.  I  longed  for  Paris  when  I  returned 
to  Philadelphia,  and  I  perpetually  saw  "European"  in 
the  most  ordinary  and  domestic  things.  That  way  lies 
cosmopolitanism,  and  cosmopolitanism  has  played  the 
devil  with  my  life — making  me  a  wanderer  when  I  was 
happier  at  home,  making  me  think  Brussels  beer  was 


ioo  STEEPLEJACK 


better  than  the  brew  I  drank  at  old  Pop  Kemper's  place 
on  Sansom  Street,  forcing  me  to  deny,  I  blush  to  say, 
that  Fairmoimt  Park  was  superior  to  the  Prater,  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  or  the  Thiergarten.  It  is.  But  an  inverted 
snobbery  made  me  say  the  opposite.  In  matters 
spiritual  and  artistic  it  is  the  same.  To  be  sure  I  never 
denied  that  Mark  Twain  wasn't  our  most  American  of 
writers,  one  who  would  outlive  the  pallid  philosophy  of 
Emerson,  the  swaggering  humbuggery  of  Walt  Whit 
man,  or  the  sonorous  platitudes  of  Longfellow;  that  sort 
of  snobbery  I  never  cultivated.  I  adored  Poe,  and  sadly 
wonder  over  the  certain  condescension  among  our  native 
critics  when  speaking  of  him.  He  drank.  So  did  Gen 
eral  Grant.  He  drugged.  So  did  Coleridge,  De  Quincey, 
and  Charles  Baudelaire.  He  was  inconstant.  So  were 
Byron,  Shelley,  Swinburne — oh  !  billions  of  humans;  what 
man  some  time  or  other  hasn't  carried  a  harem  under 
his  hat?  Or  dreamed  of  houris  never  seen  on  sea  or  land  ! 
But  European  poets  could  live  recklessly  while  this  un 
happy  American  was  hunted  to  his  grave  for  his  tempera 
mental  variations;  and  once  buried  was  quickly  exhumed 
by  the  moral  buzzards.  As  Baudelaire,  who  gave  Poe 
European  fame  by  translating  him,  wrote:  "Since  when 
are  the  jackals  permitted  to  defile  the  graves  of  genius 
in  the  United  States?"  Why  don't  critics  and  public 
alike  pose  the  important  question :  Is  the  work  good?  Is 
the  work  bad?  Do  this  and  the  moral  will  take  care  of  it 
self — that  misery-breeding  moral,  varying  like  a  weather- 
vane  according  to  clime,  time,  and  circumstance. 

But  restless  bones,  and  the  fear  that  home-keeping 
youths  have  homely  wits,  drove  me  across  seas  and  back 
again.  Even  as  a  lad  when  I  stood  at  Market  Street 
ferry,  I  wished  to  be  in  Camden.  I  would  stay  on  a  car 


THE  GOSSIP  OF-  THE  DA\  101 

long  after  the  point  was  passed  where  1  should  have 
alighted.  These  were  only  growing  pains,  I  know,  yet 
showed,  like  straws,  which  way  the  breeze  would  blow 
later  on.  Girls,  when  maturing  sometimes  nibble  at 
slate  pencils  or  sip  vinegar;  this  doesn't  impeach  them 
from  becoming  the  happy  mothers  of  twins,  or  joining  the 
suffragette  brigade.  I  remember  a  terrible  story  of  ab 
normal  passion  manifested  by  an  up-State  Judge,  from 
Reading,  or  Lancaster,  or  Harrisburg?  Once  a  year  he 
would  disappear,  and  visit  the  Quaker  city.  Then  at  the 
Girard  House  in  the  secrecy  of  a  locked  room  he  would 
let  loose  his  worst  instinct,  and  for  a  week  wallow  in 
debauchery.  But  here  is  the  odd  part  of  the  story,  one 
vouched  for  by  the  best  authority,  the  man  himself. 
His  degrading  obsession  was  oatmeal  and  cream.  Fear 
ing  the  accusation  of  gluttony  in  his  native  town,  he 
would  come  here  and  stuff  himself  till  miserably  ill  with 
oatmeal,  then,  pale,  his  soul  at  peace,  he  would  return 
home  meekly  accepting  the  suspicious  glances  of  his  wife 
and  the  broad  jests  of  his  friends.  But  his  morbid  crav 
ing  had  been  satisfied,  and  without  peril  to  his  immortal 
soul;  besides  he  was  considered  a  slily  wicked  chap,  a 
"deevil  amang  the  wimmen."  What  man,  vain  or  other 
wise,  could  resist  such  flattering  implications? 


X 
MAGIC 

A  new  mania  invaded  my  consciousness  about  this 
time,  and  captured  me  in  the  very  citadel  of  my  being. 
Magic,  black  and  white.  As  was  so  often  the  case  the  spark 
that  set  me  afire  came  from  a  book,  the  Memoirs  of 
Robert  Houdin,  most  amiable  of  Frenchmen,  most  in 
genious  of  conjurers.  He  was  the  first  to  utilise  elec 
tricity  as  an  aid  to  his  magical  mechanisms;  he  literallj 
invented  so-called  Second  Sight;  and  while  his  magic  is 
quite  out  of  date,  he  may  be  fairly  called  the  Columbus 
of  his  profession,  the  modern  Columbus,  because  magic 
is  as  old  as  the  Atlanteans,  and  every  religious  mythology 
has  its  legends  of  the  art.  Before  I  read  Houdin,  old 
Signor  Blitz  had  made  our  young  eyes  stare  with  his  tricks 
and  his  ventriloquism.  And  Heller,  magician  and  piano- 
virtuoso,  had  linked  in  my  imagination  the  two  arts. 
Heller,  whose  real  name  was  Palmer,  and  an  English 
man,  was  an  excellent  pianist.  A  grand  piano  always 
stood  on  the  stage  surrounded  by  his  infernal  apparatus; 
cones  and  cabinets,  glittering  brass,  and  the  complete 
paraphernalia  of  the  successful  prestidigitator.  Heller 
played  the  operatic  fantasias  of  Thalberg — then  con 
sidered  extremely  difficult — with  technical  finish  and 
musical  taste.  He  had  evidently  studied  in  a  good  school 
and  his  touch  sang  on  the  keyboard.  What  he  accom 
plished  in  the  other  craft  I  have  forgotten.  But  he  was 
a  degree  higher  than  Signor  Blitz.  Hermann  was  defter 
at  card  tricks;  I  mean  the  original  of  that  name,  not  his 


MAGIC  103 


nephew.  Houdin  I  missed  in  Paris  though  I  attended 
a  seance  at  the  Houdin  Theatre,  somewhere  down  the 
grand  boulevard  and  conducted  by  his  son.  Maskelyne 
and  Cook  at  Egyptian  Hall,  London,  were,  in  my  opinion, 
the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  illusionists  I  had  seen, 
and  I  saw  all  I  could  from  Blitz  and  Perry  to  Keller  and 
Harry  Houdini.  Exposing  the  spiritualistic  humbug- 
gery  was  another  sensation  of  the  day,  for  after  the  toe- 
cracking  exploits  of  the  Fox  Sisters  of  Rochester,  came 
messages  red-hot  from  spirit-land  with  cabinets  and  tam 
bourines,  banjos,  and  apparitions.  Need  I  add  that  the 
recent  death  of  Eusapia  Palladino,  the  Italian  medium, 
with  the  newspaper  accounts  of  her  curious  career,  only 
prove  that  victims  still  abound.  Think  of  such  a  great 
scientist  as  Professor  Crookes  being  fooled  by  the  Katie 
King  materialisation !  Poor  old  Professor  Zoellner  went 
mad  over  the  fourth-dimension,  and  it  was  because  of 
this  charlatanry  that  Pepper  invented  his  famous  ghost. 
We  saw  it  at  the  Academy — how  many  years  ago? — and 
after  that  only  imbeciles  could  be  convinced  that  me 
diums  had  supernatural  communication  with  alleged 
"spirits."  Supernormal  these  women  are,  and  their 
catalepsies  have  proved  of  value  to  psychiatrists.  But  it 
is  all  of  the  earth  earthy. 

Then  there  was  the  plump  nymph  who  slumbered  in 
mid-air,  her  elbow  resting  on  an  iron  upright.  She,  too, 
has  gone  the  way  of  things  inutile.  No  one  believes  in 
her  nowadays.  The  crystal  clock-dial  suspended  by  a 
wire,  one  of  Houdin's  inventions,  was  a  novelty  in  the 
seventies.  But  these  elaborate  mechanisms  did  not 
tease  my  fancy  as  did  the  personal  address  displayed  in 
pure  sleight-of-hand.  To  make  vanish  a  solid  ball,  to 
throw  a  pack  of  cards  in  the  air  and  with  a  magic  dagger 


104  STEEPLEJACK 

transfix  the  card  chosen  in  the  audience — by  a  confeder 
ate,  or  else  "forced"  —to  stand  before  a  table  and  with 
mystic  gabble  make  eggs  open  and  become  bouquets,  or 
pull  rabbits,  and  water-filled  glass  globets  from  a  silk 
hat — ah !  how  my  heart  beat  in  the  presence  of  those 
marvels.  I  had  read  of  the  mango-tree,  of  the  disap 
pearing  rope-ladders,  of  East  Indian  Yogis,  yet  none 
appealed  so  much  to  my  fancy  as  nimble  finger-tricks. 
I  became  an  adept — and  a  nuisance  to  the  family.  I 
would  dazzle  the  servants  by  juggling  with  apples,  po 
tatoes,  plates.  From  my  unhappy  aunt  I  would  pluck 
oranges,  and  finally  I  became  so  mad  over  the  thing  that 
I  gave  exhibitions  in  our  nursery  to  gaping  boys  and 
girls  collected  from  the  neighbourhood  (admission  five 
pins  per  person).  These  affairs  always  broke  up  in  a 
fight,  free  to  all  comers;  either  my  brother  Paul  would 
become  a  recalcitrant  confederate,  and  forget  to  return 
to  its  owner  the  real  handkerchief,  or  else  some  inquisi 
tive  urchin  in  the  audience  would  force  his  way  behind 
the  curtain  just  as  I  was  cooking  up  some  dark  enchant 
ment.  I  was  really  suffering  from  virtuoso  fever — the 
inclination  that  drives  deluded  people  on  a  concert  plat 
form  there  to  sing  or  play  and  make  a  show  of  themselves. 
Deeper  rooted  still  was  the  desire  to  illude.  The  escape 
from  the  actual.  The  yearning  for  the  miracle.  It 
found  its  account  with  me — later  in  music,  at  once  the 
most  sensuous  and  spiritual  of  the  Seven  Arts;  the  one 
art  which  extends  partially  over  the  line  into  the  unex 
plored  fourth  dimension  of  mystical  mathematics.  Music, 
mathematics,  mysticism.  The  oldest  of  triune  sub 
stances.  Mysticism  didn't  bother  me  as  a  boy.  It  was 
the  Will-to-Deceive,  as  the  psychologists  would  say,  that 
made  its  appeal.  The  Great  Adventure  then  was  to 


MAGIC  105 


bamboozle  my  little  public,  and  to  this  very  day  I  re 
tain  a  certain  finger  ability  in  palming  coins  or  hand 
kerchiefs.  Alas !  the  vanishing  globe  full  of  gold-fish 
is  beyond  my  present  capacity,  but  I  can  play  in  a  re 
spectable  style  HandePs  fire  fugue  and  keep  its  complex 
web  of  four  voices  distinct.  Music,  executive  music, 
is  also  prestidigitation  but  allied  to  beautiful  sounding 
patterns.  And  music  is  an  order  of  mystic  sensuous 
mathematics,  as  I  wrote  in  my  study  of  Chopin. 

To  complete  the  ruin  of  my  regular  habits  my  prin 
cipal,  Professor  Roth,  fetched  from  London  an  illustrated 
catalogue  of  Bland,  whose  magic  shop  somewhere  in 
Soho  was  a  resort  of  the  profession.  I  longed  for  appa 
ratus.  I  went  to  great  lengths  to  secure  the  coveted 
articles,  and  at  the  shop  of  Yost  on  Ninth  near  Arch 
Street,  I  met  my  Waterloo.  The  proprietor  was  a  little, 
dark-skinned  man,  whose  large  black  eyes  would  hypno 
tise  you  as  he  performed  inexplicable  passes,  removing 
out  of  time  and  space  a  weighty  object.  I  literally  sat 
at  the  feet  of  this  Yost  the  Yogi.  I  must  have  had  the 
shining  brow  of  the  neophyte.  Perry,  the  magician,  was 
a  visitor  at  the  shop  and  could  handle  a  pack  of  cards 
with  skill.  I  neglected  my  books.  I  was  become  a 
weekly  truant.  The  grand  debacle  was  at  hand.  For 
merly  it  had  been  Wood's  Museum  that  deranged  my 
studies;  the  Lauris,  Harry  Hawk,  the  leading  lady, 
Lily  Hinton,  and  the  stock  company,  not  to  speak  of  old 
Joe  Nagle,  these  had  all  contributed  in  turn  to  divert 
me  from  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  scholarly  recti 
tude.  Magic  finished  me,  and  there  was  irony  in  the 
gift  of  Professor  Roth,  for  that  Bland  catalogue  lost  him 
a  pupil.  After  a  brief  but  very  intense  interview  with 
my  father,  my  magical  toys  were  returned  to  the  original 


106  STEEPLEJACK 

owner.  I  was  removed  from  school — an  expensive  one, 
by  the  way — why  waste  time  there  when  I  wouldn't 
study?  I  became  an  old  man  overnight,  a  senile  dotard 
of  twelve.  Another  dream  smashed !  What  my  future? 


XI 

A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST 

My  parents  were  surprised  when  I  boldly  suggested 
that  I  study  to  become  a  mechanical  engineer.  What  I 
thought  of  in  the  recesses  of  my  idiotic  skull  was  the 
realisation  of  an  old  dream:  to  become  a  locomotive 
engineer,  and  make  daily  runs  between  the  depot  at 
Ninth  and  Green  Streets  and  Chestnut  Hill.  Had  I 
not  been  found  by  an  agonised  nurse  beneath  a  locomo 
tive  at  Chestnut  Hill  picking  the  cylinder?  Had  I  not 
pushed  the  controlling  lever  of  a  machine  and  set  it 
spinning  down  the  steel  grooves  through  the  narrow  cut 
below  the  Hill,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  fireman — the 
engineer  had  gone  away — in  the  coal  tender  I  should 
have  come  to  grief  as  I  couldn't  stop  the  locomotive? 
My  bias  towards  machinery  was  unquestionable.  At 
last  my  vocation.  Finally,  yielding,  it  was  decided  that 
I  should  learn  the  trade  from  cellar  to  garret,  and  to 
that  end  I  was  apprenticed  to  the  Baldwin  Locomotive 
Works,  before  the  steam-hammer  shop  of  which  I  had  so 
many  times  been  ravished  by  the  spectacle  of  sooty 
giants,  flying  sparks,  the  clash  of  metal,  and  the  fierce 
blaze  of  the  furnaces.  I  was  suddenly  lifted  from  the 
ditch  of  depression.  I  forgot  my  magic,  and  only  had  a 
vision  of  that  locomotive  test,  its  wheels  a  few  feet  off 
the  ground,  revolving  at  a  superhuman  speed  amid  the 
hissing  of  steam  and  the  anxiety  of  the  judges  above  in 
the  cab.  My  ultimate  goal  wass  the  job  as  engineer  on 
the  railroad.  Other  boys  longed  to  be  policemen  or  sol- 

107 


io8  STEEPLEJACK 

diers  or  engineers,  and  I  recall  one  queer  little  chap  who 
confessed  that  he  wished  he  had  been  born  a  girl  (how 
we  hooted  him  one  afternoon  for  this  admission,  the 
brevet  in  our  eyes  of  a  coward).  But  a  locomotive  and 
fifty  miles  an  hour  for  me.  To-day  I  hate  motor-cars, 
speed,  dusty  roads,  and  the  honk  of  the  horns.  Why? 

The  great  day  came  and  early  one  sultry  September 
morning  (I  have  kept  the  date,  September  17,  1872),  1 
went  in  company  with  my  patient  father  to  the  works, 
to  the  machine-shop  at  the  corner  of  Seventeenth  and  a 
little  street  I  have  forgotten  (isn't  it  Hamilton?).  There 
we  met  William  Parry,  a  member  of  the  firm,  and  whose 
family  had  intermarried  with  a  cousin  of  ours,  a  Baird. 
Mr.  Parry  had  been  a  workman  and  was  the  most  active 
and  practical  of  the  great  Baldwin-Baird  corporation. 
He  was  amiable  to  me  and  seemed  to  think  it  natural 
that  I  should  yearn  to  become  an  engineer.  We  entered 
a  vast,  gloomy  shop.  The  noise  deafened  me.  Men, 
half-naked,  hammered  on  anvils;  machinery  spun  around; 
the  place  was  damp  and  smelled  of  smoke.  A  thin, 
stooped  man  in  middle  years,  and  wearing  spectacles, 
saluted  my  father:  "Hello,  John,"  and  my  father  an 
swered:  "Hello,  Pete."  I  was  told  that  he  was  Peter 
Farnum,  an  old  Northern  Liberty  friend  of  his.  He  was 
a  kind  man  but,  oh,  my!  his  face  and  bare  arms  were 
greasy.  The  idea  of  physical  impurity  had  always  re 
volted  me.  I  was  soon  to  shed  such  girl-like  nonsense. 
After  Mr.  Parry  had  said  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Farnum, 
he  shook  our  hands,  saying:  "We'll  make  a  man  of  your 
boy,  John,"  and  left  us.  His  departure  was  as  if  the 
sun  had  hid  behind  a  cloud.  With  my  father  he  was  one 
of  the  last  links  with  the  outside  world.  Already,  I  was 
repenting  of  my  determination  to  become  an  engineer, 


A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST  109 

already  I  suffered  from  homesickness.  The  practical 
Farnum  told  me  to  come  next  morning  ten  minutes  be 
fore  seven,  and  bring  a  pair  of  jumpers,  overalls,  he  called 
them;  then  he  would  set  me  to  work.  I  arose  at  five 
A.  M.  the  following  day  and  ate  breakfast  with  my  father, 
who,  as  an  old  workman,  had  never  cured  himself  of  his 
early-rising  neurosis.  I  ate  a  rare  beefsteak,  so  as  "to 
put  hair  on  my  chest"  as  my  father  realistically  phrased 
it.  Then  a  bundle  under  my  arm,  a  full  dinner-pail  in 
the  other  hand,  cap  on  head,  and  my  heart  a  cinder  in 
my  bosom,  I  walked  down  the  street  in  a  hazy  dawn 
and  reached  the  shop  a  half-hour  too  soon.  But  the  men 
began  to  straggle  in,  coughing,  grunting,  some  smoking 
pipes,  all  wearing  the  resigned  yet  resentful  expression  of 
humans  about  to  begin  another  day  of  hateful  slavery. 
Talk  about  the  "dignity  of  labour"  to  working  men  and 
watch  their  incredulous  sneers.  Dignity  be  hanged ! 
they  used  to  say  to  me  at  the  dinner-hour,  it's  the  grind 
ing  misery  of  long  hours — ten  hours  in  those  times — the 
poor  pay  and  the  risks  of  the  job,  and  after  my  short 
experience  I  heartily  agree  with  their  views,  and  I'm 
neither  a  socialist  nor  an  anarchist,  much  less  a  senti 
mental  agitator,  parlour  rebel,  nor  amateur  busybody 
fomenting  trouble  among  the  proletariat — to  whom  the 
world  will  presently  belong,  the  bourgeois  having  had  his 
fling  since  Napoleon  I.  But  I  have  lived  with  these 
men,  seen  their  futile  attempts  to  make  both  ends  meet, 
to  avoid  the  temptations  of  drink,  good-fellowship,  and 
the  natural  desire  for  a  little  relaxation  after  so  many 
hours  of  blinding  toil.  To-day  steel-workers  occasion 
ally  end  as  multi-millionaires.  Wages  are  higher.  The 
workman  is  better  housed,  and  hygienic  conditions  im 
proved.  Nevertheless,  labour  is  not  always  ennobling. 


i  io  STEEPLEJACK 

Since  my  experience  at  the  Baldwin  shops,  I  have  seen 
the  coal-miners  of  Belgium  in  the  "black  lands,"  and 
look  back  at  Baldwin's  as  an  earthly  paradise  in  com 
parison.  Whenever  anyone  tells  me  that  we  should  all 
remain  in  the  position  God  placed  us,  I  wonder  what 
this  particular  moralist  would  say  if  he  found  himself 
in  the  cold  dawn  of  a  drizzling  autumn  morning  ham 
mering  screws  amidst  a  hell  of  fire,  fury,  and  noise;  or 
in  a  boiler-shop  chipping  with  a  chisel?  It's  no  fun, 
hard  work,  and  as  I  was  born  constitutionally  lazy,  I 
loathe  it.  To  be  driven  like  stupid  sheep  or  angry  goats, 
into  an  enclosure,  and  there  work  or  starve — ha !  just 
try  it  once  yourself  Mr.  Universal  Panacea !  I  know 
that  the  labour  party  makes  mistakes,  that  it  is  as 
tyrannical  in  its  essence  as  trust  combinations,  mo 
nopolies,  and  other  oppressive  institutions;  yet  I  can't 
help  sympathising  with  the  workman,  and  that  much 
I  learned  from  hard  experience,  something  my  kind  father 
never  allowed  me  to  see  at  home.  No  wonder.  Later 
I  read  Proudhon,  Marx,  Lassalle,  Stirner,  and  Mackay 
to  find  the  same  arguments. 

But  I  had  only  set  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the  lad 
der  of  torture.  Pete  Farnum  showed  where  I  could 
stow  my  kit,  a  locker  with  a  key  which  he  bade  me  use 
if  I  expected  to  keep  intact  my  copious  luncheon  of  cold 
meat  and  buttered  bread.  Workmen  are  as  honest  as 
any  other  class,  but  borrowed  food  doesn't  come  under 
any  rubric  of  the  decalogue.  I  put  on  my  new  and  coarse 
overalls,  too  large  by  half  for  me.  I  stood  waiting  for 
further  orders,  a  picture  of  scared  sickly  youth.  How 
I  wished  myself  out  of  it  all !  Then  there  surged  into 
my  view  another  face.  It  belonged  to  Woody  Menden- 
hall,  the  superintendent,  a  small,  wiry,  terribly  active 


A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST  m 

man,  with  blond  hair  and  an  imperious  way  with  him 
that  sent  my  heart  into  my  boots.  The  boss !  But  he 
proved  a  pleasant  boss,  only  he  was  in  such  a  hurry, 
and  his  oaths  were  so  crisply  blurted  out  that  I  feared 
him.  He  told  Mr.  Farnum  to  send  me  out  into  the  yard 
to  get  the  pedestals  that  support  the  piston-box  of  the 
locomotive.  Each  shop  in  this  enormous  hive  has  its 
particular  part  of  the  machine  to  produce  and  perfect. 
In  our  shop  it  was  the  cylinders.  My  initial  task  was  to 
knock  off  with  a  hammer  and  a  chisel  the  roughness  of 
the  casting  on  the  pedestals;  rust  and  bubbles  were  thus 
removed.  But  first  I  had  to  get  my  pedestals.  They 
lay  in  the  yard,  and  after  a  snow  it  wasn't  pleasant  to 
dig  them  up.  Then  lugging  the  ugly  casting  into  the 
shop  I  would  put  it  in  a  vise  at  my  work-bench  and  pro 
ceed  to  maul  my  thumb  with  a  twelve-pound  steel  ham 
mer.  How  heavy  it  was !  I  discovered  that  technique 
is  demanded  in  such  a  prosaic  occupation  as  hitting  a 
chisel  squarely  on  the  head.  A  light,  elastic  wrist,  econ 
omy  of  movement,  a  shrewd  eye,  and — bang !  Again 
on  the  first  knuckle  of  my  right-hand  thumb.  How 
ever,  practice  improved  my  stroke,  its  speed  and  preci 
sion,  and  after  a  week  I  began  to  touch  the  chisel.  But 
my  colleagues,  otherwise  the  gang,  wouldn't  let  me  alone. 
I  was  called  "the  dude"  because  there  was  a  rumour 
that  Mr.  Parry,  a  boss  among  bosses,  had  me  under  his 
wing;  then,  too,  Pete  Farnum  was  nice  to  me;  worst  of 
all,  my  white  hands  and  slender  fingers  damned  me  in 
the  eyes  of  my  new  acquaintances.  I  think  I  might 
have  been  forgiven  my  "pull,"  but  that  my  hands  were 
against  me;  "skinny  fingers,"  as  one  fellow  derisively 
said,  fingers  that  never  did,  never  would,  do  a  day's 
hard  work.  He  wasn't  a  bad  prophet,  this  same  Harry, 


ii2  STEEPLEJACK 


whose  family  name  I  shall  never  know.  The  work  was 
hard,  the  workmen  not  sympathetic.  But  at  the  end  of 
the  first  week  came  pay-day,  that  magical  word  which 
sesame-like  opens  all  doors.  I  had  rather  swaggered 
at  home,  patronising  my  younger  brother,  and  forcing 
the  proletarian  note,  especially  rejoicing  in  my  grimy 
personal  condition.  I  believed  it  the  real  thing  to  appear 
as  dirty  as  I  could.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  smear  my 
self  with  soot  and  grease.  It  seemed  quite  in  the  key  of 
the  toiler  with  his  hands.  But  that  pay  envelope ! 
That  settled  my  social  status.  It  was  my  first  attack 
on  capitalistic  reserves.  I  was  earning  my  living  by  the 
sweat  of  my  brow,  and  the  sum  was  precisely  five  dollars 
and  twenty-five  cents — piece-work.  I  wasn't  appren 
ticed  as  I  had  expected.  The  system  of  apprenticeship 
was  no  longer  in  vogue  at  Baldwin's.  My  wages  looked 
large  in  my  eyes,  for  they  were  all  mine.  However,  I 
didn't  buy  a  private  yacht  at  once,  though  I  cast  eyes 
on  a  small  sailboat  for  sale,  second-hand. 

As  soon  as  I  manifested  a  friendly  disposition  my 
mates  returned  it  with  interest.  They  were  decent 
chaps,  few  dissipated,  and  admirers  of  men  like  William 
Parry,  Peter  Farnum,  and  Woody  Mendenhall,  who  had 
once  worked  with  their  hands.  When  they  learned  that 
my  father,  too,  had  used  his  hands  to  earn  his  daily 
bread,  their  respect  for  me  was  not  decreased.  I  told 
them  that  my  grandfather  worked  with  his  hands,  but 
pressing  down  organ  keys  didn't  impress  them  as  genuine 
labour.  It  was  playing.  Their  fetish  was  the  human 
hand,  the  true  tool  of  humanity.  And  they  were  right. 
Carlyle  couldn't  have  put  the  case  more  clearly  than 
Andy,  a  Scotchman  with  whom  I  chummed:  :'Ye  see, 


A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST  113 

lad,  it's  this  way.  If  ye  don't  use  your  hands  to  earn 
your  bread,  you're  a  softy.  No  good.  You're  living  off 
the  working  man.  You're  an  aristocrat.  That's  my 
belief."  Otherwise  Andy  was  not  very  radical.  He 
read  Hugh  Miller's  Old  Red  Sandstone  after  luncheon 
and  hummed  hymn-tunes.  From  him  I  learned  to  re 
spect  the  hand  as  the  mightiest  lever  of  civilisation. 
My  own  hands  were  the  dirtiest  in  the  shop,  and  I  gloried 
in  them.  Besides  Andy,  who  was  tall,  thin,  dark,  there 
was  another  chum,  Tommy,  and  as  we  became  insep 
arable,  we  were  usually  saluted  in  mock  Scotch  dialect: 
"Wha's  cooming  the  noo?  Tommy,  Jemmy,  Andy!!" 
Tommy  was  a  reddish  blond  Englishman  with  a  broad 
Northumberland  brogue.  I  knew  it  was  Northumber 
land  accent  because  he  told  me  so.  He  was  a  steady 
worker,  his  leisure  hours  he  spent  with  his  books.  On 
clear  Sundays  he  took  fatiguingly  long  walks  with  Andy. 
I  accompanied  them  only  once;  that  sufficed.  He  held 
that  the  American  workman  would  be  fresher  if  he  walked 
more;  he  hated  saloons  and  was  a  teetotaller,  but  not 
rabid  when  it  came  to  another  man's  drinking.  Live 
and  let  live  was  his  motto,  though  I  did  hear  him  giving 
Andy  a  blowing  up  on  Blue  Mondays.  Andy  liked 
his  little  drink,  and  on  Sundays  it  was  always  a  large 
one.  But  he  never  missed  a  day  at  his  job. 

My  dinner-pail  was  an  object  of  much  curiosity. 
When  my  mates  saw  it  the  first  day  they  gasped.  Our 
cook,  who  spoiled  me  from  my  birth,  would  fill  it  with 
several  pounds  of  cold  meat  and  other  items  in  propor 
tion.  There  was  enough  to  satisfy  the  stomachs  of  two 
hungry  men.  I  look  back  with  envy  on  my  assumed 
capacity,  for  I  never  finished  the  portions.  My  friends 
helped  me,  and  would  then  stare  at  me  as  if  I  were 


ii4  STEEPLEJACK 

prize-cattle.  The  appellation  of  "hollow-legs"  pursued 
me  from  my  father's  dining-table  to  my  humble  work 
bench.  I  was  positively  embarrassed  by  the  rough, 
good-humoured  remarks  passed  on  my  appetite.  I  ap 
preciated  David  Copperfield's  feelings  after  his  encoun 
ter  with  the  ferocious  waiter  at  the  inn,  and  the  land 
lady's  obvious  worriment  when  she  whispered  to  the 
coachmen:  "Take  care  of  that  boy,  George,  he  is  wisibly 
swelling"  (I  quote  from  memory).  As  cold  food  didn't 
agree  with  me,  I  ate  a  hot  dinner  in  company  with 
Tommy  and  Andy,  at  a  boarding-house  somewhere  on 
Hamilton  Street.  The  change,  and  the  fresh  air  were 
tonics.  I  consumed  more  than  ever.  In  the  meantime 
my  pay-envelope  did  not  grow.  I  have  since  consoled 
myself  with  the  knowledge  that  I  earned  more  as  a  me 
chanic  than  I  did  at  any  time  later  when  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  the  law  or  conveyancing. 

But  my  hour  was  at  hand.  I  was  about  to  come  to 
grips  with  a  superior  force.  Our  shop  was  full  of  whirl 
ing  monsters  that  from  time  to  time  would  seize  a  man 
and  tear  him  to  pieces.  There  was  an  organised  hos 
pital  service  in  the  establishment,  not  to  speak  of  acci 
dent-insurance  for  the  employes.  I  had  been  warned 
from  the  beginning  to  avoid  the  drills,  lathes,  and  other 
scoopers  of  lives.  My  jumper  was  too  full  in  the  sleeves. 
Tommy  begged  me  to  have  them  altered.  I  promised 
this.  The  holidays  were  at  hand.  Night  work  gave  me 
a  chance  to  earn  some  extra  money.  I  was  running  a 
drill-press  by  this  time;  that  is,  I  bored  screw  holes  in 
an  iron  beam  for  the  pedestals  aforesaid.  It  was  a  job 
that  needed  no  particular  skill  or  judgment.  The  spot 
for  the  hole  was  indicated  by  a  chalk  mark.  I  enjoyed 
the  play  of  the  machine  and  was  fairly  industrious  until 


A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST  115 

one  unlucky  December  night  I  turned  to  answer  a  neigh 
bour  when — bang !  I  felt  my  sleeve  caught  in  the 
rapidly  revolving  drill  and  the  room,  machines,  and  men 
turned  around  me  as  in  a  dream.  I  cried  out,  but  couldn't 
hear  my  voice,  and  then  my  head  was  knocked  against 
the  iron  table.  I  heard  music  singing  in  my  ears  and 
went  to  sleep  without  pain.  It  was  a  pleasant  death. 
When  I  came  to  myself  the  voice  of  the  sardonic  Harry 
fell  on  my  ears,  and  it  smarted  more  than  the  balsam 
apple  which  they  poured  over  my  skinned  arms  and 
chest.  "He  swung  around  the  circle  like  General  Grant." 
It  must  have  been  the  time  of  General  Grant's  world- 
tour  as  the  expression  "swinging  around  the  circle" 
was  in  everyone's  mouth.  But  it  did  seem  cruelly  in 
appropriate.  Andy  had  proved  my  saviour;  with  the 
quickly  operating  wits  of  a  practical  workman  he  didn't 
seek  to  drag  me  from  the  dangerous  drill,  but  simply 
pushed  the  belting  off  the  lower  wheel,  the  machine  came 
to  a  standstill,  and  I  fell  to  the  floor.  All  the  same  it 
was  a  narrow  squeak. 

There  was  a  compensation;  Emerson  insists  that 
always  there  is  one.  In  this  instance  it  proved  to  be 
the  official  ambulance,  with  a  driver,  a  surgeon,  red  lights, 
and  a  gong.  My  mother's  feelings  may  be  imagined 
when  this  terrifying  apparatus  halted  at  our  house,  and 
good-hearted  Peter  Farnum  went  in  to  break  the  news. 
I  can  see  my  mother,  white-faced  but  cool,  helping  me 
up-stairs.  I  wasn't  much  damaged.  Skinned  alive  was 
the  sensation,  yet  no  bones  were  broken,  and  my  case 
was  considered  a  mere  accident  compared  with  the 
swift,  horrid  entanglements  of  unhappy  men  in  a  belt, 
there  to  be  dragged  to  the  ceiling  and  mangled.  How 
ever,  I  had  become  a  hero  without  heroism.  I  hadn't 


ii6  STEEPLEJACK 


cried,  though  there  were  tears  of  agony  in  my  eyes  when 
that  infernal  juice  of  the  balsam  apple  was  sprinkled 
over  my  raw  flesh.  Even  the  nervous  shock  failed  to 
register.  I  was  of  tougher  material  than  anyone  sus 
pected,  for  I  had  always  played  on  the  belief  of  my  mother 
that  I  was  delicate  because  of  premature  birth.  My 
nurse  had  predicted  that  seventh-month  children  never 
came  to  maturity.  Therefore,  my  speedy  return  to 
normal  health  surprised.  My  mother  kept  the  hand 
ful  of  rags  that  had  been  torn  and  twisted  by  the  drill. 
I  signified  my  intention  of  returning  to  the  shop.  I 
suspect  it  was  more  from  a  spirit  of  bragging  than 
any  love  of  the  job.  Of  machinery  I  had  my  bellyful. 
But  I  wanted  to  go  back  and  back  to  Baldwin's  I  went. 
There  were  Tommy  and  Andy  to  see,  and  there  was 
Boss  Farnum  to  thank  for  his  kindness.  I  was  called 
General  Grant  by  Harry,  who  didn't  like  me,  and  re 
ceived  with  mild  wonder  by  my  two  chums  who  said 
they  had  given  me  up;  they  praised  my  pluck,  but  ad 
vised  me  to  get  a  lighter  job.  'You  will  never  make  a 
workman,  Jemmy,"  added  Tommy.  Thenceforth  I  trans 
ferred  my  friendship  to  an  engineer  in  the  big  boiler-room 
on  the  Eighteenth  Street  side.  With  him  I  shared  my 
copious  dinners,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  chain  of  scalp- 
freezing  stories.  He  told  me  that  one  day  when  he  had 
run  out  for  a  wet  of  ale  he  had  forgotten  the  water-cock 
and  the  boilers  ran  low.  On  his  return  he  was  aghast. 
uThe  boilers  were  foaming,  my  boy.  Foaming.  All 
was  lost.  I  expected  a  blow-up  every  second.  I  had 
turned  on  the  water,  but  it  was  too  late."  Breathlessly 
I  exclaimed:  "Did  she  blow  up?"  (Every  machinist 
knows  a  boiler  is  female?)  "No,  she  didn't,  but  it  was 
a  close  call,"  he  grumblingly  acquiesced.  "I  ran  out 


A  YOUTHFUL  MACHINIST  117 

and  shouted  to  the  shop  that  she  was  foaming."  That 
"foaming"  caught  my  fancy  as  much  as  Mrs.  Joe  Gar- 
gery  and  her  rampages. 

Despite  my  good  intentions  with  which  to  pave  Hades, 
nature  intervened.  A  bone-breaking  cold  kept  me  in 
bed  for  a  week,  and  the  New  Year  found  me  tired  of  the 
glittering  mirage  of  locomotive  engineer.  This  time  my 
father  had  something  to  say.  He  had  observed  my 
reading  and  scribbling,  also  my  too  glib  tongue  and  a 
marked  capacity  for  idling,  and,  naturally  enough,  he 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  I  would  make  a  lawyer. 
I  have  read  elsewhere  that  early  in  life  I  had  my  con 
science  extracted  by  a  psychical  surgeon;  perhaps  my 
father  thought  of  this,  too;  anyhow,  I  said  farewell  to 
Baldwin's,  which  had  done  me  some  good;  early  hours, 
hard  work,  and  the  association  with  what  Walt  Whit 
man  calls:  "Powerful  uneducated  persons."  I  found  in 
them,  as  I  still  find,  more  strength  of  character,  less  in 
sipidity,  and  sincerer  traits  among  workmen  than  I  do 
in  other  strata  of  social  life.  And  also  a  solid  education, 
the  education  of  life,  not  books.  Having  little  time,  a 
serious  workman  only  reads  the  best.  Without  effusion 
my  old  comrades  wished  me  well.  Harry  I  didn't  see, 
but  Tommy  and  Andy  I  hated  to  leave.  I  promised  to 
visit  them  every  Sunday,  and  never  did.  I  was  become 
an  idler  with  clean  hands,  a  dude,  living  on  other  men's 
labour.  I  knew  that  Tommy  and  Andy  had  disowned 
me,  so  I  promptly  forgot  them. 


XII 
LAW   MY    NEW   MISTRESS 

My  superficial  education  soon  betrayed  itself.  No 
arithmetic,  little  writing,  less  grammar,  and  a  plentiful 
lack  of  history,  would  these  deficiencies  bar  me  from  the 
study  of  the  law?  My  Latin  and  French,  said  my  father, 
"might  be  of  use."  My  mother  was  sceptical.  So  was 
I.  However,  on  a  cold,  cloudy  Monday,  January  13, 
1873,  I  was  agam  a  sullen  Iamb  led  to  the  slaughter. 
Dr.  Ellwood  Wilson,  who  had  brought  most  of  the  family 
into  the  world,  had  a  son,  a  promising  young  lawyer, 
Ellwood  Wilson,  Jr.  His  offices  and  residence  were  at 
No.  1 1 12  Walnut  Street.  The  house,  a  double  one,  is 
intact  to-day.  Across  the  street  was  the  home  of  old 
Dr.  Gross,  and  many  a  time  I  saw  young  Haller  Gross 
come  down  the  steps  in  gorgeous  raiment,  for  he  was 
as  great  a  dandy  then  as  Fred  Fotterall,  Dick  Townsend, 
Ned  Rogers,  Louis  Beylard,  John  King,  or  any  of  the 
Philadelphia  Club  and  City  Troop  men.  Mr.  Wilson 
consented  to  take  me  as  a  law  student,  although  I  said 
nothing  that  would  indicate  even  a  fairly  reasonable 
desire  to  study.  I  simply  did  as  I  was  told.  My  ad 
venture  as  an  engineer  in  quest  of  a  locomotive  had  left 
me  rather  shame-faced.  The  daily  life  of  a  law  student 
was  apparently  a  lazy  one.  There  was  no  salary  attached, 
hence  I  didn't  kill  myself.  Mr.  Wilson  was  amiability 
personified.  We  began  with  Blackstone,  Justice  Shars- 
wood's  Commentaries.  Dry  reading?  I  didn't  find  the 
work  dry,  as  its  English  was  an  antidote  for  the  inevi- 

118 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  119 

table  barrenness  of  the  theme.  The  intricacies  of  com 
mon  law  were  disclosed  and  explained.  What  racy  old 
English  wrote  the  worthy  Blackstone.  In  my  father's 
engraving  cabinet  there  was  an  engraved  portrait  of  the 
great  man,  robes  and  all.  Yet,  I  invariably  deserted 
him  for  Wharton  and  Stille's  Medical  Jurisprudence. 
There  was  metal  more  attractive.  The  horrors  of  crim 
inology  had  never  been  set  down  so  attractively  since 
I  had  devoured  Eugene  Sue's  Mysteries  of  Paris.  Natur 
ally,  I  didn't  make  perceptible  progress  in  the  law.  I 
absorbed  the  curriculum  as  a  sponge  absorbs  liquid. 
My  preceptor  examined  me  at  intervals,  and  it  was  then 
I  first  noted  what  I  call  my  mechanical  memory.  I 
memorised  as  would  a  parrot.  I  repeated  pages  without 
knowing  their  meaning.  The  big  technical  phrases  I 
gobetted  as  a  dog  does  a  bone.  Terminology  of  any  sort 
always  appealed  to  me.  I  became  proficient  in  phrases. 
With  medical,  or  scientific  terminology,  it  is  the  same, 
whether  anatomy,  geology,  astronomy,  or  cookery,  the 
technical  verbalisms  were  easy  to  remember.  My  judg 
ment  centres  were  not  much  exercised,  so  that  when  I 
underwent  regulation  examinations  at  the  Law  School, 
or  during  the  law  course  at  the  University  I  had  no 
trouble  in  reeling  off  page  after  page,  because  I  simply 
let  my  memory  prompt  and  turn  over  in  my  mind  each 
page  as  it  was  finished.  But  put  me  to  writing  out  opin 
ions  on  a  possible  case,  and  my  vaunted  memory  col 
lapsed.  Not  taking  the  slightest  interest  necessarily  I 
had  nothing  to  say.  Later  in  life  I  met  pianists  who  .  \/ 
could  play  hundreds  of  pieces.  I  have  questioned  them 
and  in  nine  instances  out  of  ten  I  found  the  same  me 
chanical  memory  as  mine.  They  saw  the  note-groups 
and  the  pages,  but  the  musical  idea,  or  its  emotional  ex- 


120  STEEPLEJACK 

pression,  did  not  much  concern  them.  Ideas  were  then 
not  my  shibboleth.  I  soon  hated  the  law  as  only  rep 
resenting  conventional  usage,  and  musty  precedent  filled 
me  with  disgust.  I  had  no  need  of  reading  the  diction 
ary,  the  writer's  keyboard,  for  the  reason  urged  by 
Theophile  Gautier,  to  increase  one's  vocabulary;  I 
rather  studied  it  for  Walter  Pater's  reason:  to  know 
what  words  to  avoid.  So  is  it  in  music.  The  supreme 
virtuoso  conquers  because  he  understands  and  feels. 
His  memory  is  filled  by  the  larger  designs,  the  greater 
emotional  curves  of  a  composition,  and  not  merely  by 
a  succession  of  notes.  But  this  obvious  truth  I  was  to 
discover  years  afterwards. 

I  loafed  and  invited  my  soul  to  reading  and  staring 
from  the  large  window  on  the  north  side  of  the  house. 
I  became  acquainted  with  the  green  bags  of  legal  lumi 
naries.  I  knew  them  all  by  name  and  fame.  I  saw 
Richard  McMurtrie  go  quietly  by  in  earnest  converse, 
or  Daniel  Dougherty,  a  household  name  and  friend  of 
my  parents — with  his  characteristic  stride  and  flowing 
locks.  Richard  Dale,  then  a  student  at  the  Law  School, 
would  wave  his  hand  and  swing  on  as  if  the  universe 
depended  on  his  getting  to  Washington  Square  before 
10  o'clock.  Lewis  C.  Cassidy  or  George  Tucker  Bispham 
would  pass,  or  old  Judge  Sharswood  would  move  along, 
preoccupied  with  his  eternal  legal  problems.  (Is  there 
anything  under  the  stars  more  sterile  than  the  law? 
Rabelais  doesn't  exaggerate.)  But  my  chief  delight  was 
to  watch  G.  Heide  Norris  march  by  in  all  the  splendour 
of  very,  very  baggy  trousers,  and  very,  very  high  collars, 
accompanied  by  a  friendly  male  echo  likewise  attired. 
From  Mr.  Norris  I  imbibed  a  passion  for  expensive  col 
lars.  As  with  Victor  Maurel,  the  collar  became  a  cult. 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  121 

At  1 1  o'clock,  rain  or  shine,  the  British  consul,  Mr. 
Kortright,  would  heave  into  view;  portly,  choleric, 
pink-skinned,  eyes  of  porcelain-china  blue,  and  dressed 
as  if  for  Pall  Mall,  this  pleasant  old  gentleman  was  tre 
mendously  admired  by  me.  If  I  saw  Dickens'  types 
everywhere,  in  Mr.  Kortright  I  found  the  ideal  Thack 
eray  clubman.  It  was  what  Henry  James  calls  "the 
emotion  of  recognition,"  and  the  exercise  of  this  emotion 
became  an  overmastering  one.  It  was  that  memory  of 
mine  beginning  to  seek  analogies.  I  hadn't  then  read 
Hegel,  but,  when  I  did,  his  identification  of  opposites 
was  an  easy  metaphysical  morsel  to  swallow.  I  was 
always  matching  patterns — men,  women,  ideas,  sounds, 
sights,  and  smells. 

Mr.  Wilson  possessed  an  excellent  library,  and  while 
I  neglected  Somebody  or  other  on  Contracts,  Kent's 
Commentaries,  or  Coke  on  Littleton,  I  read  De  Foe, 
Smollett,  Richardson,  Fielding.  Ah !  what  bliss.  Cla 
rissa  Harlowe  I  mixed  up  with  Tom  Jones,  and  mistook 
Mrs.  Booth  for  Roxana.  Launcelot  Greaves  and  the 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle  were  the  same,  and  I  en 
joyed  Moll  Singleton  more  than  I  did  Robinson  Crusoe. 
I  had  outlived  my  dime-novel  and  Jack  Harkaway  days, 
though  I  confess  when  the  author  of  that  famous  series 
for  boys,  Bracebridge  Hemynge,  visited  America,  I  went 
to  see  him  with  more  pleasure  than  I  experienced  when 
I  squeezed  the  chilly  hand  of  Matthew  Arnold  in  Asso 
ciation  Hall  some  years  later.  My  reading  was  not  con 
fined  to  English.  French  had  been  a  master  passion; 
all  things  French,  painting,  sculpture,  and  literature. 
Horizons  widened.  The  world  was  not  contained  in 
Philadelphia.  With  the  Centennial  Exposition  I  suf 
fered  my  first  severe  attack  of  cosmopolitanism.  That 


122  STEEPLEJACK 


tropical  summer  of  1876,  shall  I  ever  forget  it?  The 
heat  was  so  sustained  and  exhausting  that  I  did  not 
visit  the  exhibition  grounds  till  the  autumn.  The  city 
was  gay.  Jacques  Offenbach  conducted  at  his  garden, 
Broad  and  Cherry  Streets;  Theodore  Thomas  gave  open- 
air  concerts  in  the  old  Forrest  mansion.  The  streets 
were  tinted  by  a  hundred  exotic  costumes,  and  Finelli 
fried  his  oysters  in  oil.  Our  town  was  put  on  the  map 
of  Cosmopolis  overnight.  General  Grant  had  started 
the  machinery  on  the  opening  day — he  was  feeble  on  that 
occasion,  and  had  to  be  supported — and  half  the  world 
closed  it.  I  heard  Richard  Wagner's  five  thousand 
dollar  Centennial  March  played  by  the  Thomas  Or 
chestra,  and  wondered  how  so  much  money  could  have 
been  wasted  on  such  commonplace  music.  But  the 
Baireuth  Music  Festival  was  in  progress  and  I  eagerly 
read  the  account  in  the  Times.  Wagner  was  still  a  dark 
horse,  his  theories  those  of  a  madman,  his  music  un- 
melodious.  Think  of  it!  And  "Tristran  and  Isolde"  one 
prolonged  melody  from  the  prelude  to  the  death-song. 

My  interest  in  the  law  languished.  I  was  otherwise 
occupied.  The  4th  of  July,  1876,  was  not  only  the  most 
memorable  day  in  the  century,  but  also  the  hottest.  In 
a  temperature  of  105  degrees  in  my  bedroom  under  the 
roof  I  wrote  a  short  story,  The  Comet,  and  I  don't 
doubt  that  the  temperature  stimulated  me  to  lurid  de 
scription.  It  was  my  first  fiction.  A  comet  visits  our 
planetary  system,  and  with  dire  results.  Poe  wrote  in 
a  more  exalted  vein  his  Colloquy  of  Monos  and  Una, 
and  Jules  Verne  was  at  his  best  in  his  Off  on  a  Comet. 
I  had  the  temerity  to  sell  my  story  for  five  dollars,  and  it 
duly  appeared,  ten  years  later,  in  a  West  Philadelphia 
journal,  The  Telephone.  I  have  it  in  my  desk  with  other 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  123 

disjecta  membra.  When  The  Star,  by  Herbert  Wells, 
appeared  I  realised  how  clumsy  was  my  pitiable  inven 
tion.  The  English  author  puts  Poe  and  Verne  in  the 
shade  with  The  Star,  the  supreme  cosmical  tale.  But 
anyone  who  could  write  fiction  on  a  day  when  the  hinges 
of  the  nethermost  abode  were  singed  had  the  call  of  the 
inkpot.  I  hadn't.  I  disliked  writing  principally  be 
cause  of  the  pothooks  and  hangers  involved.  Invention 
least  of  all  troubled  me.  My  handwriting  had  become 
"standardised."  I  indited  leases,  wills,  and  engrossed 
mortgages  and  real-estate  deeds.  Mr.  Wilson  was  a 
notary  public  and  conveyancer,  and  the  old-fashioned 
methods  of  searching  for  clear  titles  in  the  Recorder  of 
Deeds  office  prevailed.  I  had  lots  of  fun  in  the  Re 
corder's  office,  over  which  presided  a  jolly  stout  gentle 
man  named  F.  Theodore  Walton.  His  son,  lovingly 
known  as  "Pud  Walton,"  belonged  to  our  gang  of  young 
sters,  lawyers  "en  herbe"  and  statesmen  in  embryo. 
Many  mornings  I  spent  over  big  leather-bound  tomes 
bearing  the  cryptic  letters  F.  T.  W.  (F.  Theodore  Wal 
ton's  initials).  Now,  a  title  insurance  gives  you  a  title 
while  you  wait.  This  shoe-black  part  of  the  profession 
— as  we  called  it — no  longer  exists. 

I  grew  accustomed  to  the  smell  of  parchment  and 
carried  a  green  baize  bag  (full  of  sandwiches  and  fruit). 
It  looked  so  professional.  Occasionally,  not  often,  I 
was  admitted  within  the  charmed  circle  of  a  court-room 
and  watched  the  legal  wheels  go  round.  Years  before 
I  saw  Twitchell,  the  murderer,  at  the  bar,  and  also  Probst 
— a  farm-hand,  who  had  slaughtered  an  entire  family 
of  nine  or  ten.  The  Police  Gazette  was  proscribed  read 
ing,  but  we  contrived  to  see  it.  I  remember  "Bill" 
Mann,  the  public  prosecutor,  also  General  Charles  H. 


i24  STEEPLEJACK 

T.  CoIIis.  I  became  familiar  with  the  procedure  of  gen- 
ral  practice.  I  asked  Judges  for  a  delay,  and  my  voice 
buzzed  and  thundered  in  my  ears.  My  prime  achieve 
ment  was  the  day  of  the  great  Jay  Cooke  failure,  when 
apparently  the  heavens  of  finance  were  tumbling  into 
the  Delaware  River.  Ellwood  Wilson,  Jr.,  contrary  to 
the  advice  of  his  associates,  precipitated  that  historical 
bankruptcy  by  setting  off  a  tiny  squib.  A  town  and 
building  association,  of  which  he  was  part  parent,  had 
deposited  its  entire  funds  with  Jay  Cooke  and  Company. 
This  was  during  the  year  1873,  *f  I  am  no't  mistaken. 
Armed  with  a  subpoena  I  boldly  entered  the  office  of 
Pitt  Cooke,  a  brother  of  Jay,  and  presented  him  with 
a  summons  to  show  why  the  five  hundred  dollars  of  the 
Freehold  Mutual  Company — or  some  such  title — should 
not  be  returned  to  that  important  corporation.  I  was 
told  that  this  subpoena  set  off  the  mine  that  blew  up 
the  banking  house  of  Jay  Cooke  and  Company.  How 
true  this  is  I  can't  say.  I  only  know  that  I  was  scared 
blue  and  shivered  in  my  skin  even  when  the  dignified 
banker  thanked  me  as  he  accepted  service.  But  I  felt 
myself  the  guilty  one,  not  he. 

Mr.  Wilson's  associate  was  Henry  Galbraith  Ward, 
a  handsome  young  lawyer  from  New  York,  where  he  is 
to-day  on  the  bench  of  the  Supreme  Court — Appellate 
Division.  Judge  Ward  took  me  in  hand  at  once.  Daily 
he  put  me  through  my  paces,  and  my  sleight-of-hand 
memory  didn't  deceive  him.  He  would  say:  "Define!" 
and  I  was  forced  to  define  or  be  sent  back  to  the  neglected 
page.  I  realise  now  he  was  studying  me.  He  was  the 
willing  recipient  of  my  half-baked  enthusiasms,  and 
one  day  he  advised  me  to  become  a  musician.  But 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  125 

steady  piano  practice  was  abhorrent  to  me.  Yes,  dazzle 
an  audience,  but  to  prepare  for  that  pleasing  event — 
ah — the  shoe  pinched  too  hard.  And  then  a  new  crisis 
had  declared  itself — fine  clothes.  What  Carlyle  called 
the  "dandiacal"  spirit  inflamed  my  very  bones.  Those 
pernicious  collars  of  Heide  Norris  had  undermined  my 
Spartan  soul.  I  became  a  dandy.  No  pattern  in  colour 
or  design  could  be  exaggerated  enough.  Finally  one 
morning  when  I  appeared  in  a  snuff-coloured  suit,  baggy 
as  to  trousers,  and  preposterously  cut  away  in  the  coat, 
Mr.  Ward  spoke  to  me  paternally — I  don't  think  he  was 
more  than  twenty-two  years  old.  He  argued  the  case 
of  taste  vs.  tastelessness.  Clothes,  like  manners,  should 
be  unobtrusive.  It  was  Walter  Pater's  "tact  of  omis 
sion"  in  the  concrete  (a  phrase,  by  the  way,  that  Oscar 
Wilde  calmly  appropriated).  I  listened  and  my  mood 
was  chastened.  I  have  often  thought  of  Judge  Henry 
Galbraith  Ward  when  I  revelled  in  a  purple  prose-panel. 
My  temperament  has  always  inclined  to  the  excessive, 
the  full-blown,  the  flamboyant.  That  clothes  crisis  is 
common  to  hobbydehoys.  I  was  infatuated  with  Ouida, 
the  heavy  swells  in  Punch.  Anthony  TroIIope  filled  me 
with  pangs  of  envy.  His  longest  novel,  The  Way  We 
Live  Now,  and  the  young  aristocrats  of  the  Bear  Garden 
Club,  Dolly  Longstaffe,  and  the  others,  seemed  ideal. 
Those  fleshpots  of  Egypt  were  not  subtle,  yet  they  flooded 
my  little  firmament.  With  a  chum,  Charles  Sloan,  I 
contemplated  setting  up  a  trap,  a  dog-cart,  and  even  the 
price,  six  hundred  dollars,  for  a  second-hand  affair, 
didn't  daunt  us.  Chestnut  Street  was  transformed  to 
Piccadilly,  the  Park  to  Rotten  Row.  I  was  badly  bitten. 
I  only  read  English  fiction,  preferably  Guy  Livingstone. 
I  recovered  from  this  attack  of  snobbish  measles  by  the 


126  STEEPLEJACK 

aid  of  music — that  universal  solvent,  as  Henry  James 
calls  it.  But  London  was  my  dream-city  then.  Paris 
came  later.  Dickens  had  fed  my  fancy  until  I  saw  a 
Dickens  character  behind  every  tree.  My  favourite 
promenade  was  along  the  Delaware  River  water-front, 
as  far  north  as  Port  Richmond.  How  I  revelled  in  the 
ships,  the  smell  of  tar  and  cordage,  not  to  speak  of  the 
brackish  water !  It  was  all  in  the  tonality  of  London, 
and,  need  I  add,  that  when  I  first  visited  that  mighty 
city  in  1878  I  was  disillusioned?  Continued  residence 
brought  back  the  enchantment.  I  still  see  London 
through  the  spectacles  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Trol- 
lope.  In  the  nineties  George  Moore  gave  us  a  new  pair 
of  spectacles,  though  much  of  the  old  charm  had  gone. 
Boston  and  Philadelphia  are  the  two  American  cities 
that  remind  me  of  London;  certain  localities,  be  it  un 
derstood.  New  York  is  so  original  that  it  is  monstrous. 
A  new  cosmopolis,  one  that  Stendhal,  greatest  of  cos 
mopolitans  and  promenaders  of  souls,  would  have 
reviled. 

About  this  period  I  laid  the  keel  for  a  course  of  study 
upon  which,  if  the  ship  had  been  built,  I  could  have 
straightway  sailed  to  the  Blessed  Isles  of  Knowledge. 
The  faded  red  copy-book  I  still  treasure  wherein  I  wrote 
— yes,  with  legible  hand — a  scheme  of  reading  that  would 
have  staggered  Lord  Acton,  and  a  more  omnivorous  reader 
than  he  I  do  not  know.  AH  English,  American,  Ital 
ian,  Spanish,  French,  German,  and  classical  literatures 
were  included  in  this  vast  undertaking.  The  mere  tran 
scription  of  the  authors'  names  covered  many  pages,  and, 
remember,  I  only  selected  the  best.  In  English  I  was 
satisfied  to  begin  with  Chaucer,  ending  with  Ruskin  and 
Pater.  Poets,  dramatists,  essayists,  novelists  were  there, 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  127 

and  subdivisions  devoted  to  writers  on  special  subjects: 
art,  music,  science.  It  was  a  five-hundred-feet  book 
shelf,  this  of  mine,  and  at  least  five  hundred  and  more 
authors  figured  on  it;  a  Rabelaisian  feast,  a  gluttonous 
and  greedy  absorption  of  all  the  world  has  thought  and 
written.  When  I  read  of  Lord  Acton's  proposed  History 
of  Ideas  the  plan  seemed  perfectly  feasible  to  me.  My 
ignorance  was  on  a  par  with  my  ambitions,  which  were 
immeasurable.  It  is  a  glorious,  if  foolish,  time  when  a 
young  man  feels  that  the  earth  and  the  adjacent  planets 
are  his  oyster;  that  he  must  make  love  to  every  pretty 
girl;  that  he  will  be  rich,  famous,  happy,  immortal— 
phew !  what  moral  headaches  after  this  autointoxicated 
nightmare.  What  cruel  awakenings  at  cold,  drab  dawn. 
Ah !  Steeplejack,  descend  rung  by  rung  your  shaky 
ladder  and  bury  in  the  darkest  recesses  of  your  heart 
the  clouded  visions  seen  from  the  spire  of  your  church  of 
dreams. 

The  epical  list  would  edify  even  such  a  supercritic  as 
Paul  Elmer  More.  It  properly  began  with  ^Eschylus — 
or,  was  it  GEsop?  I  followed  the  alphabetical  order — 
and  ended  with  Xenophon.  I  purged  all  the  lists  as 
time  rolled  on,  reading  all  the  while,  as  if  some  devil 
would  catch  the  hindmost;  technical  books  multiplied 
apace.  Music  and  art  predominated.  It  was  my  fate 
to  enter  many  gardens  of  art  and  only  by  traversing  the 
avenues  of  critical  literature.  The  great  epics  were  my 
constant  companions — thanks  to  the  judgment  of  my 
mother.  She  knew  and  loved  the  best,  and  if  her  passion 
for  the  life  of  the  spiritual  drove  her  to  the  reading  of 
mediocre  religious  literature,  her  taste  was  never  for  a  mo 
ment  led  astray.  This  trait  she  had  in  common  with 
Huysmans — she  esteemed  the  piety  of  an  author  while  de- 


128  STEEPLEJACK 

testing  his  style.  Mrs.  Craven  bored  and  so  did  Eugenie 
de  Guerin.  Thus  it  was  that  I  read  and  liked  St.  Teresa, 
St.  John  of  the  Cross,  and  St.  Catharine  of  Emmerich. 
It  wasn't  a  wide  step  from  Dante's  Inferno  to  John  of 
the  Cross's  Dark  Night  of  the  Soul.  I  remember  a 
friend  of  my  mother's,  an  invalid,  Mrs.  Joliffe,  long  since 
in  some  paradise,  I  hope,  so  fervently  did  she  long  for  it; 
she  was  a  Second  Adventist,  and  once  when  the  "Second 
Coming"  seemed  nigh  she  put  on  her  best  night-gown, 
and  in  company  with  a  band  of  pious  geese  she  went  on 
the  housetop  to  be  nearer  the  sky.  She  caught  a  bad 
cold,  but  her  belief  remained  unshaken.  She  had  a 
chart  of  tremendous  significance  over  which  I  was 
allowed  to  pore.  It  showed  the  swarming  hosts  of  Anti 
christ,  which  were  to  swoop  down  from  the  impenetrable 
wilds  of  Russia,  devils  with  high  cheek-bones,  a  la  Tar- 
tare,  though  hardly  a  pleasing  sauce.  Most  of  us  be 
lieve  to-day  that  Antichrist  didn't  come  from  unhappy 
Russia,  but  then  the  Russian  was  an  unknown  factor, 
his  country  still  a  mystery.  What  fun  that  map  of 
Armageddon  was.  My  mother  cautioned  me  against 
its  apocalyptic  denunciations,  yet  she  admitted  that 
some  day  the  world  would  be  bathed  in  blood,  but  the 
cross  of  Christ  would  conquer. 

The  curious  part  of  my  study-book  is  that  I  lived  long 
enough  to  read  and  reread  every  book  in  the  list.  The 
original  project  was  a  five-year  course — an  impossible 
project;  fifty  years  it  has  taken  me.  Once  in  a  while  I 
refresh  my  memory  by  reading  my  half-crazy  programme. 
When  music  had  gripped  my  vitals  I  did  the  same  thing. 
I  calmly  played  every  piano  study  that  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on,  and  lived  to  write  a  long  chapter  about  my 
experiences.  Now,  I  realise  that  while  life  is  too  vast  to 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  129 

be  compressed  into  any  single  formula,  whether  religious, 
philosophical,  or  artistic,  universal  wisdom  has  been  dis 
tilled  into  certain  books.  All  Christianity  is  in  The 
Imitation  of  Christ,  and  the  quintessence  of  secular  wis 
dom  may  be  found  in  Montaigne.  No  better  gymnastic 
for  the  spirit  is  there  than  Plato,  and  woe  to  him  that 
reads  not  the  Bible — not  alone  for  the  style  or  the  "quo 
tations,"  but  for  the  sake  of  his  miserable  soul.  The 
classics,  Greek  and  Latin,  are  what  Bach  and  Beethoven 
are  to  musicians.  Throw  metaphysics  to  the  dogs — 
unless  you  like  a  tortoise  pace  in  a  labyrinth  and  leading 
nowhere.  Lock  the  door  of  your  ivory  tower  and  drop 
the  key  into  the  moat.  But  I  am  boasting.  All  those 
books  did  not  make  me  wise.  The  lucid  folly  of  love  is 
more  illuminating.  George  Moore  once  told  me — it  was 
at  Baireuth — that  after  such  writing  as  Flaubert's  the 
young  pretender  to  pen-victories  had  better  sit  on  a 
fence  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine.  I  believed 
that  the  better  part  of  wisdom  was  to  stand  on  the  side 
walk  of  life  and  regard  the  changing  spectacle,  the  pass 
ing  show,  in  a  word,  the  disinterested  attitude  of  an  artist, 
enamoured  of  appearances,  and  the  bravery  of  surfaces. 
It  is  the  Hedonistic  pose.  But  the  street  overflowed 
my  tiny  pavement,  and  I  was  swept  into  the  moving 
currents,  and  that  is  a  salutary  happening  for  all  save 
the  elect,  who  may  compass  the  life  contemplative  with 
out  becoming  spiritually  sterile.  Bacon  wrrote  that  "In 
this  world,  God  only  and  the  angels  may  be  spectators." 

In  the  meantime  my  law  studies  were  on  the  shelf. 
In  despair  I  had  been  transferred  by  my  parents  to  the 
law  and  conveyancing  offices  of  the  Hon.  Daniel  M. 
Fox,  a  distant  cousin  of  my  father.  These  offices  were 


1 30  STEEPLEJACK 

at  No.  508  Walnut  Street,  facing  Independence  Square. 
I  chummed  with  a  young  lawyer,  Harry  Hazlehurst, 
and  began  to  keep  professional  hours.  Mr.  Fox  saw  to 
it  that  I  was  given  much  conveyancing  work  which  I 
had  to  copy  in  a  clerkly  hand,  and  his  son,  H.  K.  Fox, 
helped  in  my  studies.  I  frequented  the  Law  School  and 
listened  to  young  Dick  Dale — who  was  to  become  a 
brilliant  advocate — plead  a  fictitious  case  before  Judge 
Sharswood,  the  great  man  himself,  who  was  kind  enough 
to  further  the  cause  of  our  education.  He  was  a  modest, 
reticent  man,  whose  judgments  were  well-nigh  infallible. 
The  younger  men  worshipped,  yet  stood  in  awe  of  him. 
His  influence  was  profound.  I  almost  took  an  interest, 
in  the  abstract  questions  which  he  posed. 

A  friendship  with  a  young  man  about  this  time  made 
the  law  more  human  for  me.  His  name  was  Wicker- 
sham;  Samuel  George  Woodward  Wickersham.  He 
lived  across  the  street  from  our  house — we  had  moved 
down-town  to  Race  Street  before  the  Centennial — with 
his  grandfather,  George  Woodward,  a  retired  publisher. 
From  the  windows  of  that  house  came  the  sound  of 
music-making.  It  was  a  cultivated  family.  Aubertine 
Woodward  played  the  piano  like  an  artiste;  George 
Woodward,  her  brother,  spouted  Swinburne,  the  Poems 
and  Ballads,  and  from  his  lips  the  insidious  music  of 
" Dolores"  first  fell  upon  my  enraptured  ears.  Young 
Wickersham  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe.  His  grandfather 
was  wealthy,  but  he  believed  that  a  young  man  should 
be  self-supporting.  So  his  grandson,  after  graduating 
from  Lehigh  University,  proposed  to  study  law.  "Well 
and  good,"  said  this  shrewd  old  ancestor,  "but  how  do 
you  propose  to  live  in  the  meanwhile?"  George — or 
Sam,  as  we  called  him — knew  that  he  had  a  roof  over  his 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  131 

head,  but  as  he  was  of  a  singularly  independent  disposi 
tion,  he  settled  the  question  by  mastering  telegraphy, 
reading  law  during  his  leisure  hours.  I  can  see  him  in 
his  little  telegraph  office  at  the  general  post-office,  Chest 
nut  Street,  tapping  the  key,  studying  Spanish,  German, 
and  French.  Carefully  apportioning  his  time,  he  con 
trived  to  work  twenty-five  hours  a  day;  at  least,  that  is 
what  we  told  him.  His  punctuality  became  notorious. 
As  the  evening  Angelus  rang  at  the  Cathedral  on  Logan 
Square  my  father  would  take  out  his  watch  and  say: 
"Sammy  is  due,"  and  sure  enough  he  would  turn  the  cor 
ner  of  Race  and  Seventeenth  Streets  before  the  bells 
ceased.  As  he  didn't  smoke  or  drink  he  had  leisure 
when  needed.  He  was  my  first  example  in  the  concrete 
of  that  awful  word,  efficiency.  I  didn't  pattern  after 
him,  but  I  admired  the  manner  in  which  he  organised 
his  life.  If  ever  a  man  went  straight  to  his  goal  it  was 
young  Wickersham.  He  had  Herbert  Spencer  at  his 
tongue-tip  when  other  boys  were  reading  Beadle's  dime- 
novels.  One  day  I  went  to  see  him  for  a  chat  during 
the  luncheon  hour,  and  I  found  him  elated  over  the 
arrest  and  conviction  of  a  swindler  named  Seaver.  He 
had  handled  the  case  alone,  tracing  the  operations  of  the 
fellow  through  the  telegrams,  and  landed  his  man  to  the 
great  relief  of  the  postal  authorities,  who  had  despaired 
of  the  task.  The  subsequent  career  of  Wickersham  is 
history,  political  and  otherwise.  He  passed  his  last 
examinations,  went  to  New  York,  engaged  in  practice, 
a  corporation  lawyer,  now  of  the  first  rank,  and  onetime 
United  States  Attorney  General  during  the  Taft  admin 
istration.  We  wrangled  like  all  young  men,  and  I  often 
heard  him  declare  that  for  him  the  law  would  only  be  a 
stepping-stone  to  political  power.  He  was  not  of  a 


132  STEEPLEJACK 


religious  turn,  but  he  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Quaker, 
telling  me  that  it  was  the  one  truly  spiritual  religion, 
without  dogmas,  superstitions,  or  sacerdotal  flummeries, 
and  invariably,  I  would  reply:  "A  religion  without  dogma 
is  a  body  without  a  skeleton,  it  won't  stand  upright." 
Now,  the  position  is  reversed.  Mr.  Wickersham  is  a 
good  churchman,  an  Episcopalian,  and  I  admire  the 
Quakers.  He  reproached  me  for  my  faineant  attitude 
towards  life.  Be  up  and  doing !  was  his  policy,  and  I 
would  smile  indulgently  at  his  robust  will  and  tremendous 
capacity  for  taking  pains;  above  all,  his  intellect,  which 
could  assimilate  the  toughest  problems,  pulverise  cob 
blestones,  and  macerate  the  arguments  of  his  legal 
opponents;  all  those  qualifications  for  a  successful  career 
seemed  to  me  so  much  waste  of  time  and  energy.  I 
must  have  been  an  annoying  person  to  sensible  men. 
I  have  wondered  how  all  the  kind  people,  who  advised 
me  then  and  since,  had  so  much  patience;  their  advice 
I  could  not,  or  would  not,  act  upon.  The  other  side  of 
George  Woodward  Wickersham  is  rather  astonishing. 
He  has  a  well-developed  aesthetic  culture.  He  learned 
to  love  Black  and  White  from  studying  my  father's  col 
lection,  and  to-day  he  buys  mezzotints  and  engravings. 
By  his  music  he  came  naturally.  I  don't  think  he  plays 
on  any  instrument,  but  he  knows  the  tone-language 
after  a  long  apprenticeship  at  his  home.  He  looks  the 
same  to  me  as  he  did  four  decades  ago,  barring  a  greyer 
head.  He  is  the  picture  of  a  grave  Spaniard,  an  illusion 
that  is  not  dispelled  when  he  speaks  the  language,  though 
he  has  the  vivacity  of  an  Italian.  A  traveller,  linguist, 
man  of  the  world,  rich,  famous,  and  erudite,  I  think 
Philadelphia  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  her  son,  even  if 
he  was  born  in  Pittsburgh. 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  133 

Again  I  changed  my  law  preceptor.  New  Year,  1878, 
I  went  to  the  office  of  Attorney  William  Ernst,  No.  727 
Walnut  Street.  The  building  has  not  changed  a  bit. 
Across  the  street  were  the  offices  of  Benjamin  Harris 
Brewster  and  John  G.  Johnson.  Again  I  became  a 
window-watcher  of  other  people's  doings,  instead  of 
poking  my  nose  into  my  own  business,  which  was  sup 
posed  to  be  the  law.  It  was  my  last  chance.  Pernicious 
were  my  activities  otherwise.  Another  crisis  had  super 
vened,  music,  and  I  never  got  over  the  attack,  never 
shall  until  I  die.  A  book  had  decided  my  vocation,  St. 
Martin's  Summer,  by  Annie  Hampton  Brewster,  sister 
or  half-sister  of  Attorney  General  Brewster.  I  had  the 
courage  to  speak  to  him  about  this  book,  and  he  was 
pleased,  I  could  see  that.  "Burnt-face  Brewster,"  as  he 
was  so  charitably  nicknamed,  was  a  charming  man  with 
a  high,  fluting  voice,  polished  manners,  and  a  flow  of 
profanity  that  stirred  my  young  manhood  to  its  centre. 
I  heard  him  curse  an  absent  member  of  his  family  in  the 
form  of  a  syllogism  that  made  my  spine  freeze.  He  ad 
mired  his  brilliant,  cultured  sister  as  a  matter  of  course; 
all  the  Brewsters  were  brilliant  and  cultured.  Doubtless 
his  deformity,  a  face  from  which  fire  had  burnt  nearly 
all  semblance  of  humanity,  made  his  blasphemy  more 
impressive.  He  reminded  me  of  a  ghastly  illustration 
in  Tom  Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  a  fanciful  portrait  of  the 
false  prophet  (Query:  What  is  the  difference  between  a 
false  or  true  prophet?  Aren't  they  both  fakirs?) 
Like  Wilkes,  said  to  have  been  the  ugliest  man  in  Eng 
land,  Benjamin  Harris  Brewster  used  to  boast  that  after 
five  minutes  had  elapsed  he  could  make  any  woman  for 
get  his  hideous  mask.  True,  but  they  must  have  been 
shuddering  minutes.  I  was  attracted  by  his  ugliness. 


134  STEEPLEJACK 

As  a  pleader  before  a  jury  he  was  very  convincing,  though 
I  doubt  if  he  had  the  acumen  of  his  next-door  neigh 
bour,  John  G.  Johnson,  or  the  persuasiveness  of  Daniel 
Dougherty. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  a  heavy-appearing  man,  with  seal- 
like  mustaches,  sullen  expression,  and  slow  but  pene 
trating  glance,  who  had  a  way  of  winning  cases  that 
made  him  the  envy  of  his  colleagues.  He  was  not  ad 
mired  by  his  staff.  I  disliked  his  personality.  Years 
later,  I  told  him  how  he  rather  scared  us,  with  his  grim- 
ness,  and  he  smiled.  In  reality  he  was  very  human. 
After  I  saw  his  pictures  I  forgot  the  bogie  of  Walnut 
Street.  Boys  are  a  queer  lot.  There  was  Mr.  Brewster, 
a  demon  of  irritability,  but  a  born  wheedler  when  he 
willed,  and  Mr.  Johnson,  never  choleric,  impassive,  if 
anything,  yet  we  young  chaps  gave  our  admiration  to 
the  uglier  man.  Mr.  Wayne  MacVeagh  had  an  office 
in  the  same  building  as  Mr.  Brewster.  I  knew  by  sight 
all  the  heavy  swells  of  the  profession.  I  wonder  whether 
they  were  as  great  men  as  people  believed?  Public  men, 
like  actors,  live  in  an  artificial  illumination.  I  recall 
what  Richard  Wagner  said  of  Bismarck  and  Van  Buest; 
the  latter  had  pursued  the  composer  for  his  political 
opinions  with  unabated  rancour;  for  Wagner  was  a 
political  refugee  since  1849.  Political  great  men,  so- 
called  statesmen,  are  not  great,  they  usually  have  medi 
ocre  intelligences,  but  are  crafty,  and  flatter  the  people 
who  are  always  greedy  for  praise,  like  collar-wearing 
dogs,  averred  the  musician.  They  do  more  harm  than 
good;  in  a  few  years  they  are  forgotten,  while  a  master- 
painter,  poet,  musician,  lives  on  forever.  The  coin  out 
lasts  Caesar,  as  Theophile  Gautier  properly  observed. 
Not  a  novel  assertion,  this  of  the  greatest  composer  of 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  135 

music-drama,  but  it  contains  more  than  a  moiety  of  the 
truth.  The  great  men  of  my  day  I've  forgotten,  Lin 
coln,  excepted.  But  the  busy  little  lawyers,  the  grave 
and  learned  judges,  the  pestiferous  politicians  with 
their  incessant  clamourings,  their  raising  of  false,  stupid, 
dangerous  issues — where  are  they  all?  Not  a  book, 
not  a  picture,  not  a  melody  did  they  bequeath  to  us, 
and  so  they  are  irretrievably  dead.  (This  is  extremely 
hard  on  those  humbugs,  the  reformers.) 

My  restlessness  increased,  spiritually,  physically.  One 
might  fancy  that  after  all  these  seismic  manifestations 
that  at  least  a  mouse  would  crawl  out  from  my  moun 
tain  in  parturition.  Nary  a  mouse.  Only  dissatisfac 
tion  with  the  universe,  and  not  a  finger  lifted  to  set  it 
right.  I  was  the  square  peg  in  the  round  hole,  that's 
all.  According  to  ridiculous  custom  of  the  country  I 
had  been  taken  to  a  phrenologist,  Professor  Fowler,  to 
have  my  bumps  felt,  my  genius  proclaimed,  my  share 
on  the  globe  staked  out.  Phrenology,  thanks  to  the 
labours  of  Spurzheim  and  Gall,  was  once  believed  in;  its 
true  relation  to  our  knowledge  of  the  brain  being  what 
astrology  is  to  astronomy.  But  the  superstition  pre 
vailed.  Solemnly  my  expectant  mother  was  assured 
that  I  had  a  capacity  for  anything  if  I  could  be  per 
suaded  to  apply  myself  seriously — which  I  never  could; 
furthermore,  I  had  the  centrifugal  temperamant,  not  the 
centripetal.  President  Wilson  has  the  centripetal  tem 
perament,  or  as  he  puts  it,  a  "one-track  mind."  So  has 
my  friend,  Mr.  Wickersham.  Both  men  concentrate. 
Colonel  Roosevelt  had  the  centrifugal  cast  of  mind; 
evidently  I  have  the  same.  I  fly  off  with  ease  on  any 
tempting  tangent,  also  off  my  handle.  The  aptitude  dis- 


136  STEEPLEJACK 

played  by  the  Yankee  for  a  half-dozen  pursuits  is  the 
sign-manual  of  the  centrifugal  soul.  It  is  pleasant  to 
hear  the  whirring  of  its  wheels  though  they  serve  no 
particular  purpose.  Thrashing  the  sea,  eating  the  air 
promise-crammed,  filling  the  belly  with  the  east  wind, 
fighting  windmills — these  are  a  few  attributes  of  the  cen- 
trifugalist.  He  is  nothing  if  not  versatile.  His  intensity 
lasts  ten  minutes.  He  is  focal  in  consciousness,  as  the 
psychologists  say,  but  his  marginal  subconsciousness  is 
strongly  obtruded.  The  sensory  periphery  is  more  mas 
terful  than  the  hub  of  his  being.  When  Professor  Fowler 
was  told  that  my  birthday  occurred  on  the  last  day  of 
January,  he  exclaimed:  "The  Water-Carrier,"  and  seemed 
relieved.  Sons  of  Aquarius,  fickle,  thirsty — not  water 
—for  knowledge,  are  the  rolling  stones  that  gather  no 
moss.  Now,  that  had  always  appealed  to  me — the  non- 
gathering  of  moss.  Precisely  for  that  reason  the  roll 
ing  stone  is  more  successful  than  its  stationary  brother 
who  accumulates  the  moss  of  decadence.  The  centrifugal- 
ist  is  usually  an  optimist.  All  is  for  the  best  in  this  best 
of  demi-mondes.  The  flowers  of  evil  that  blossom  in  the 
hothouse  of  hell  become  pretty  pansies  when  plucked  by 
a  centrifugal  poet.  There  are  a  lot  more  things  I  could 
tell  you  in  defense  of  this  nature,  but  these  arguments 
made  no  impression  on  my  parents,  who  were  beginning 
to  suspect  that  I  was  a  shirker.  I  was,  though  my  wak 
ing  hours  were  stuffed  with  febrile  gestures.  If  I  had  been 
a  poet  I  might  have  replied  to  my  critics  that  I  was  beat 
ing  my  luminous  wings  in  the  void,  but,  being  neither 
Shelley  nor  Arnold,  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and 
watched  the  sky,  hoping  roast  larks  would  fall  into  my 
expectant  mouth. 

Daniel  Dougherty  wras  consulted.     "Mary,"  he  said 
to  my  mother,  and  I,  sulking  in  the  background,  "the 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  137 

law  is  a  jealous  mistress,  and  if  the  boy  doesn't  like  it 
set  him  to  something  he  does  like."  I  mentally  ap 
plauded  this  decision,  though  I  wondered  at  the  banality 
of  the  quotation.  I  was  at  the  hypercritical  age,  believ 
ing  that  no  phrase  should  be  repeated,  an  insane  notion 
that  often  afflicts  "stylists."  Mr.  Dougherty  was  then 
in  the  flower  of  his  reputation,  though  he  hadn't  yet 
made  his  famous  speech  nominating  Grover  Cleveland. 
His  trump  card  was  oratory.  He  held  most  juries  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  His  devotion  to  the  Irish  cause, 
to  my  grandfather,  James  Gibbons,  who  had  encouraged 
his  youthful  ambitions,  was  unquestionable,  although  he 
was  worldly  enough,  as  are  all  lawyers,  to  foresee  that 
the  Fenian  cause  was  a  forlorn  hope.  As  he  possessed 
tact  he  knew  how  to  carry  water  on  both  shoulders,  but 
as  a  churchman  his  sincerity  could  not  be  challenged. 
His  relations  with  my  parents  were  cordial,  and  despite 
the  changing  years  he  was  always  "Dan"  to  them. 
From  what  I  have  been  told  his  legal  erudition  was 
hardly  profound;  rhetoric,  flowery  and  forcible,  was  his 
forte.  However,  they  never  called  him  "Judge  Neces 
sity,"  as  they  did  Judge  Allison,  or  was  it  old  Judge 
Finletter?  because  "Necessity  knows  no  law"  —a  vener 
able  epigram  that  was  moss-grown  when  I  first  heard  it. 
Daniel  Dougherty,  like  so  many  men  of  Irish  blood,  had 
the  head  and  features  of  a  Roman  Senator.  You  looked 
for  the  toga.  Handsome,  eloquent,  scornful,  his  reso 
nant  voice  still  rolls  and  rings  in  the  chambers  of  my 
memory.  His  wife,  his  sons,  his  daughters  are,  like 
himself,  gone.  The  boys  were  school  friends.  Charlie 
Dougherty  was  a  long  time  at  the  Roman  Embassy,  and 
in  Paris  beloved  of  newspaper  men.  For  years  he  was  a 
correspondent  from  Paris. 

My  father's  card  parties  were  well  attended.     Mark 


138  STEEPLEJACK 

Wilcox,  Michael  Dohan,  John  and  William  Lucas,  Gen 
eral  Ruff,  General  Walker,  Ferdinand  Fetherston,  editor 
of  The  Evening  Bulletin,  and  other  well-known  men  would 
play  whist,  old-fashioned  whist,  till  the  lights  burned 
blue.  Occasionally  my  father  played  a  rubber  at  the 
Philadelphia  Club,  with  General  Meade,  General  Ruff, 
and  General  Walker — the  latter  a  Rebel  officer,  and  one 
time  adversary  of  Meade.  I  can  see  the  old  gentleman 
in  high  spirits  preparing  for  these  reunions,  his  wide- 
spreading  collar,  setting  off  a  singularly  attractive  head. 
Rafael  Joseffy  after  seeing  him  whispered  to  me:  "He 
looks  like  a  Magyar  Magnate."  I  never  saw  one,  but  he 
did.  Editor  L.  Clark  Davis  was  a  visitor.  My  mother 
admired  his  wife,  Rebecca  Harding  Davis,  a  novelist, 
and  mother  of  Richard  Harding  and  Charles  Belmont 
Davis.  The  Davis  boys  were  friends  of  John  Ruff,  the 
son  of  the  general.  Many  times  we  played  together  in 
the  yard  of  the  Ruff  mansion  on  Filbert  above  Sixteenth 
Street.  There  would  be  John  Ruff,  Dick  and  Charlie 
Davis,  my  brother  Paul,  and,  at  intervals,  Sam  Wicker- 
sham.  The  Davis  boys  were  then  freckle-faced.  Later 
Dick  became  a  newspaper  reporter,  and,  need  I  add,  a 
figure  in  the  field  of  fiction.  I  wonder  if  Charlie  Davis 
ever  recalls  the  Ruff  yard  and  the  fierce  games  in  which 
pirates  were  heroes !  Sam  Wickersham  didn't  believe  in 
pirates;  he  only  believed  in  lawyers.  But  the  clearest 
call  of  my  life  was  sounding.  Music  began  to  fill  my 
ears  with  its  sweet  importunings  and  I  hopelessly  suc 
cumbed.  At  last,  that  abominable  inhibitory  sign,  "No 
Thoroughfare"  vanished  from  my  foreground  and  the 
pathway  was  shining.  If  I  had  known  what  I  now  know 
— but  don't  let  us  waste  time  in  regrets.  Music,  the 
Conqueror,  beckoned  to  me  and  up  the  stairway  of  art  I 


LAW  MY  NEW  MISTRESS  139 

have  pursued  the  apparition  ever  since — up,  a  steep 
stairway,  like  one  in  a  Piranesi  etching,  the  last  stair 
always  falling  into  space  as  you  mount,  I  have  toiled, 
the  dream  waving  me  on.  I  shall  never  overtake  this 
dream,  but  with  Sadak  seeking  the  waters  of  oblivion, 
in  John  Martin's  design,  I  must  mount  till  poor  old 
Steeplejack  falls  earthward  (much  to  the  relief  of  my 
neighbours  who  have  heard  me  trying  to  play  the  A  minor 
section  of  Chopin's  Second  Ballade  for  the  last  forty 
years). 


XIII 
MUSICAL    PHILADELPHIA 

Philadelphia  is  a  music-loving  city.  Its  history  proves 
the  assertion.  Opera  in  Italian  has  always  had  a  vogue, 
and,  like  opera  elsewhere,  it  is  first  fashionable,  then 
artistic.  Real  music — that  means  orchestral — has  a  fol 
lowing  there  which  is  gratifying,  though  a  local  symphony 
orchestra  they  have  not  had  so  many  years.  Visiting 
orchestras  with  solo  singers,  pianists,  violinists,  and  other 
instrumentalists,  supplied  our  early  deficiency.  Honour 
is  due  to  such  pioneers  as  Michael  H.  Cross  and  Charles 
H.  Jarvis — whose  portraits  in  bronze  adorn  the  lobby 
of  the  Academy.  The  Cross  and  Jarvis  symphony  con 
certs  in  Musical  Fund  Hall  were  in  existence  before  the 
advent  of  Theodore  Thomas  and  his  orchestra.  They 
were  not  financially  successful,  but  much  good  came 
from  them.  Young  folk  enjoyed' the  classical  repertory: 
Haydn,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Schubert,  Schumann,  Weber, 
and  were  well  grounded  when  Thomas  introduced  mod 
ern  music.  And  this  was  as  it  should  be.  At  Michael 
Cross's  string  quartet  parties  on  Saturday  nights  I  heard 
the  entire  quartet  literature.  I  was  only  a  youngster, 
but  I  could  hum  the  themes  from  any  of  the  numerous 
Haydn  quartets,  and  at  one  time,  urged  thereto  by  Louis 
Gaertner,  I  began  to  fiddle,  hoping  to  master  the  viola 
parts.  The  original  Cross  quartet  consisted  of  Carl 
Gaertner,  Sr. — alternating  with  William  StoII — Simon 
Stern,  second,  Roggenberger,  viola,  Michael  Cross, 

violoncello.    At  the  age  of  forty,  Mr.  Cross  took  up  the 

140 


MUSICAL   PHILADELPHIA  141 

'cello  and  played  it  in  quartet.  His  teacher  was  Leopold 
Engelke,  our  vocal  director  at  the  Roth  Academy. 
When  Engelke  or  Charles  Schmitz,  a  professional,  took 
the  'cello  part,  then  Cross  played  the  viola.  Sam  Mur 
ray  often  played  second,  or  else  Billy  Ware,  an  incred 
ibly  fat  man  who  sported  a  linen  duster  Summer  and 
Winter,  indoors  and  out.  A  lovable  personality  his. 
Those  were  jolly  nights  of  music-making.  I  usually 
stayed  all  night  in  Summer;  the  Cross  home  was  empty. 

Mr.  Cross  undertook  my  musical  education.  He  was 
rather  cynical  on  the  subject,  advising  me  to  stick  to  the 
law,  for,  said  he,  the  musician's  life  is  a  dog's  life.  He 
was  truly  a  cynical  man  in  all  his  views.  His  versatility 
was  marked.  I  best  liked  his  piano  playing,  though  his 
technique  was  limited,  but  he  had  a  singing  touch,  his 
taste  was  sound,  his  style  clear  and  musical.  He  played 
Mozart  in  a  limpid  manner,  and  the  Field  Nocturne  was 
his  battle-horse.  His  organ-playing  leaned  heavily  on 
improvisation.  He  was  not  a  virtuoso  on  any  instru 
ment.  He  taught  all;  a  chorus  conductor  of  the  Orpheus 
and  the  St.  Cecilia,  and  organist  at  the  Cathedral  for 
many  years.  An  all-round  musician  of  the  old  school, 
disdaining  specialists  and  virtuosi.  Chopin  composed 
music  in  a  cellar  he  said  and  he  preferred  Kalkbrenner. 
But  once  in  my  presence,  he  called  Sterndale  Bennet 
"small  potatoes,"  and  I  began  to  hope  for  his  conver 
sion  to  modern  music.  The  truth  is  that  in  Philadelphia 
then  Mendelssohn  was  first  and  the  others  somewhere 
out  in  the  field. 

His  rival — for  there  was  concealed  rivalry  between  the 
two  men — was  Charles  H.  Jarvis,  a  piano  virtuoso  of 
the  first  rank — that  is,  in  a  school  of  playing  long  since 
obsolete.  He  had  been  technically  grounded  in  Hummel, 


i42  STEEPLEJACK 

and  his  delicate  touch,  pearly  scales,  and  finished  style 
were  unimpeachable.  His  musicianship  was  not  so 
broad  in  scope  as  Cross's  but  it  was  more  thorough.  He 
was  master  of  the  keyboard,  nothing  else;  he  didn't 
compose,  conduct,  or  play  on  a  stringed  instrument; 
as  an  organist  he  was  merely  a  salary  earner,  but  his 
knowledge  of  the  piano  repertory  from  Alkan  to  Zaremb- 
ski,  if  we  put  the  matter  alphabetically,  or,  say,  from  the 
early  Italians  to  Chopin,  Schumann,  Liszt,  was  aston 
ishing.  As  a  prima- vista  reader  he  could  have  challenged 
Saint-Saens,  though  not  of  orchestral  scores.  He  never 
played  without  notes,  telling  me  that  some  day  von 
Billow  or  Rubinstein  would  break  down  in  public.  He 
had  not  a  musical  memory,  that  was  the  reason.  De 
Pachmann  never  played  concerto  with  orchestra  with 
out  notes;  he  once  had  a  bad  smash-up  in  public.  Jarvis 
was  not  so  musical  as  Cross.  He  was  an  intellectual 
artist,  not  an  emotional  one.  Tonal  monotony  was 
felt  by  his  audience  before  the  end  of  his  lengthy 
programmes.  The  illuminating  phrase  never  came,  but 
there  was  infallible  technique  and  a  flowing  style.  One 
Summer  he  gave  twenty  private  recitals  at  his  residence 
on  North  Nineteenth  Street,  devoted  to  the  historical 
development  of  piano  music,  and  not  only  solo  but 
chamber-music,  duos,  trios,  quartets,  quintets,  sextets, 
septets,  and  octets — Onslow,  Hummel,  Fesca,  Schumann, 
Schubert,  Beethoven,  Mozart,  Haydn.  Carl  Gaertner 
fiddled  first,  as  usual,  and  made  up  for  uncouth  method 
and  scratching  by  his  enthusiasm  and  genuine  musical 
understanding.  It  was  positively  fascinating  for  me  to 
see  Charlie  Jarvis  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  like  his  confreres, 
ploughing  through  a  mass  of  antiquated  compositions — 
fancy  Onslow  or  KaJkbrenner,  or  the  Ries  piano  concerto 
in  C  sharp  minor  ! — and  with  a  vim  that  was  stimulating. 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  143 

At  the  Cross  parties  I  heard  the  old  string-quartet  litera 
ture,  the  piano  was  seldom  used;  at  the  Jarvis  recitals 
all  piano  concertos — with  string  quartet  accompanying — 
from  the  Bach  D  minor  to  Henselt's  in  F  minor,  were 
given  in  a  finished  manner,  though  profound  interpre 
tations  were  absent.  Von  Billow  was  the  piano  god  of 
Jarvis,  for  Cross  it  was  only  Rubinstein.  And  Cross  was 
right.  Years  later,  and  shortly  before  his  sudden  and 
lamentable  death,  Charles  Jarvis  visited  me  at  the 
office  of  the  Musical  Courier,  then  on  Union  Square. 
His  opinions  of  music  and  musicians  had  little  changed. 
He  had  spent  several  years  abroad.  He  complained  that 
modern  piano  virtuosi  banged  too  much,  and  he  didn't 
hesitate  to  condemn  the  so-called  "orchestral"  style. 
Liszt  and  Rubinstein  were  to  blame;  the  latter  had  a 
marvellous  touch,  but  he  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  Thai- 
berg  in  the  art  of  singing  on  the  keyboard.  I  heard  the 
same  judgment  from  the  lips  of  Georges  Mathias  of  the 
Paris  Conservatoire,  a  pupil  of  Chopin,  who  declared 
that  Rubinstein  butchered  the  exquisite  music  of  Chopin. 
Back  to  Hummel !  cried  Jarvis.  With  all  my  heart,  I 
said,  but  to  play  in  the  colourless,  withal  chaste  manner 
of  Hummel,  and  to  pass  over  as  non-existent  the  modern 
palette  of  tone-colour,  with  its  varied  range,  its  nuances, 
its  atmospheric  pedalling — no,  that  would  be  impossi 
ble.  You  may  set  the  clock  back  an  hour  but  you  can't 
fool  the  sun.  As  a  matter  of  history  we  have  heard  three 
pianists  who  combined  the  purity  of  the  Hummel  school 
with  the  iridescent  colour-scheme  of  the  moderns — need  I 
mention  the  names  of  Vladimir  de  Pachmann,  Rafael 
Joseffy,  and  Leopold  Godowsky? 

The  violinist,  Carl  Gaertner  (there  was  no  "von"  as  a 
handle  to  his  name  then)  was  an  eccentric  man,  of  vio- 


144  STEEPLEJACK 


lent  temper,  his  heart,  however,  in  the  right  place, 
but  he  was  as  vain  as  a  peacock.  He  was  a  perfect 
example  of  the  popular  conception  of  a  musician.  He 
acted  in  a  crazy  fashion  whenever  he  had  an  audience  of 
even  two;  but  he  wasn't  crazy,  far  from  it.  My  mother, 
who  heartily  disliked  his  rude  pranks,  admitted  his 
brains,  Jewish  brains  she  called  them.  Gaertner  came 
to  America  about  the  same  time  as  Carl  Sentz,  and  was  a 
drummer  in  the  band.  He  studied  the  violin  after  set 
tling  here,  and  never  mastered  it.  He  often  played  out 
of  tune,  and  his  style  lacked  tonal  suavity  and  facile 
technique.  His  vanity  as  a  musician  was  only  topped 
by  his  masculine  conceit.  A  preposterous  dandy,  he 
thought  he  was  irresistible  with  the  unfair  sex.  When  he 
strutted  down  Chestnut  Street,  he  was,  literally,  the 
observed  of  all  observers.  No  wonder.  A  waist  pinched 
in — he  undoubtedly  wore  a  corset — his  shoulders  pad 
ded,  a  low-cut  collar  revealing  too  much  neck,  long 
floating  hair,  elaborately  curled,  surmounted  by  a  grace 
less  chimney-pot,  invariably  a  crimson  necktie,  yellow 
kid  gloves,  trousers  painfully  tight,  lacquered  boots  with 
straps — he  was  simply  wonderful.  Through  narrowed 
eyes  he  disdainfully  regarded  the  passing  crowd.  His 
contempt  for  Americans  was  true  to  type.  Because 
Philadelphians  refused  to  admire  his  scraping  of  the 
classics,  though  good-humouredly,  mocked  his  affecta 
tions,  therefore,  we  were  pigs,  blind  to  finer  issues.  So 
he  fought  on,  and  in  the  end  did  accomplish  something. 
His  zeal  for  good  music  found  expression  in  his  concerts 
given  as  a  rule  in  the  Foyer  of  the  Academy  of  Music. 
I  don't  believe  they  were  lucrative,  any  more  than  the 
Jarvis  Soirees  at  Natatormm  Hall,  across  the  street, 
But  they  served  their  purpose.  There,  a  small  nucleus  of 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  145 

music-lovers  were  introduced  to  the  best  in  musical 
literature.  To  be  sure,  the  terrible  old  man  fiddled  like 
a  demon,  but  a  virile  demon — oh  !  how  he  hated  Sarasate 
and  the  whole  tribe  of  "sugar- water  violinists" —and 
stamped  his  foot  so  loudly  that  one  night  Rudolph 
Hennig,  a  true  artist  on  the  violoncello,  warned  him  if 
he  didn't  stop,  he  would  quit  the  quartet.  It  is  a  fact 
that  in  the  Gaertner  music  studio  there  were  three  busts : 
Mozart,  Beethoven — and  Carl  Gaertner's.  How  pain 
ful  were  our  lessons.  In  company  with  Franz  Schubert, 
already  an  excellent  violinist,  I  stood  a  weekly  brow 
beating  that  would  have  discouraged  a  Joachim.  "Hein  ! 
you  think  you  play  the  viola  some  day.  Hein !  A  toy 
fiddle  is  what  you  ought  to  get,  hein!"  all  this  in  a 
raging  voice  and  with  an  accent  that  would  have  made 
him  a  hero  at  Weber  and  Fields'.  He  bullied  poor  Schu 
bert  who  finally  rebelled,  though  in  a  mildly  sarcastic 
way.  He  told  the  old  man:  "When  you  learn  to  play  in 
tune  then  I  may  learn  something  from  you."  We  fled 
at  once  after  this,  pursued  by  stormy  vows  of  vengeance. 
My  father  was  informed  that  I  played  like  five  pigs, 
that  I  had  better  study  that  tin  pan,  the  piano.  The 
two  sons  of  Gaertner  were  musical;  Carl,  Jr.,  on  the 
'cello,  Louis,  the  violin,  a  pupil  of  Joachim  and  a  far 
better  artist  than  his  father. 

When  Wilhelmj  came  to  Philadelphia  in  1880  he  had 
as  accompanists  Max  Vogrich,  Hungarian  pianist  and 
composer,  and  Constantine  Sternberg,  a  Russian  piano 
virtuoso — and  I  think  a  composer  of  piano  music  worthy 
enough  to  be  ranked  in  the  same  class  with  Scharwenka 
and  Moszkowski.  Perhaps  he  remembers  the  scene  in 
the  green  room  of  the  Academy,  when  Carl  Gaertner 
pompously  entered,  gave  his  card  to  the  giant  August 


146  STEEPLEJACK 


Wilhelmj,  and  politely  remarked:  "If  I  played  the 
Mendelssohn  concerto  as  you  did  to-night,  I  would  be 
hissed  off  the  stage,  as  you  should  have  been."  All  this 
in  German.  Wilhelmj,  who  had  played  like  a  god,  re 
mained  impassive,  called  to  his  secretary:  "Hans,  show 
this  gentleman  the  door."  After  that  Wilhelmj  could 
not  play  at  all,  according  to  his  irate  critic.  But  Gaert- 
ner  met  his  match  in  Eduard  Remenyi,  who  was  the  Liszt 
of  the  fiddle,  technically.  This  little  bald  Hungarian 
Jew,  who  looked  like  a  fat  unfrocked  priest,  came  to 
see  us,  on  Sunday  nights.  A  linguist,  a  travelled  man  of 
culture,  he  was  always  interesting.  He  was  playing  at 
the  time  at  Mannerchor  Garden,  at  Franklin  Street  and 
Fairmount  Avenue,  kept  by  Robert  Tagg,  and  I  think 
down  on  his  luck.  Carl  Sentz  led  these  open-air  concerts. 
Remenyi  abused  Brahms,  in  a  public  address,  for  steal 
ing  a  Hungarian  dance  of  his.  We  heard  lots  about 
Liszt  and  Wagner  from  him.  It  was  true  that  he  played 
in  concert  with  both  Liszt  and  Brahms.  His  real  name, 
he  told  us,  was  Hoffman;  Remenyi  is  Hoffman  translated 
into  Hungarian.  "I  am  a  born  Roman  Catholic,  an 
Abbe,"  he  avowed  to  my  mother,  and  then  winked  at 
my  father,  adding  in  an  undertone:  "a  Kosher  Abbe." 
He  looked  it.  He  always  fetched  with  him  to  any 
musical  reunions  two  violins,  a  Stradivarius  and  a 
Guarnerius.  He  called  one  of  them  the  Princess,  which 
one,  I  forget.  His  tone  was  full,  his  style  supple.  With 
what  head-wagging  he  would  play  his  fiery  version  of 
the  Rackoczy  March  or  with  what  a  sliding  technique 
he  would  fiddle  the  D  flat  Valse  of  Chopin,  a  difficult 
feat,  not  alone  because  of  the  treacherous  double-thirds, 
sixths,  octaves,  and  tenths,  but  because  of  the  dizzy 
speed  and  the  ungrateful  key  of  D  flat.  He  was  a 


MUSICAL   PHILADELPHIA  147 

master  of  masters,  Remenyi;  and  his  charlatanism  was 
only  a  copy  of  Paganini's  and  Liszt's. 

A  member  of  an  old  Hungarian  noble  house,  the  De 
Vay — a  distinguished  prelate  of  the  same  family  visited 
America  later — turned  up  in  the  city,  playing  the  violin 
in  superlative  fashion,  and  gambling  away  every  dollar 
he  earned  in  concert-giving.  This  Leonard  de  Vay  had 
studied  with  Remenyi;  and  when  he  encountered  his 
master  he  was  embarrassed.  He,  too,  had  his  violin,  and 
with  him  was  an  extraordinary  clarinet  virtuoso,  the  E 
flat  clarinet,  a  Hungarian  named  Matrai  Pista  (that  is 
Peter  Matus  or  Matrai).  When  my  father  saw  De  Vay 
face  Remenyi,  not  shaking  his  hand,  he  whispered  to  me: 
"Look  out,  the  fur  will  fly!"  Luckily  it  didn't.  Rem 
enyi  bowed  and  said  a  few  welcoming  words  in  Hun 
garian,  but  De  Vay  did  not  take  his  fiddle  from  its 
case.  Matus  opened  the  evening  with  a  cascade  of 
notes,  a  richly  embroidered  Hungarian  Czardas,  unac 
companied,  which  he  naively  confessed  he  had  "made 
up"  after  hearing  some  gypsies  play  on  their  native 
Putzta.  Remenyi  was  interested.  He  complimented 
the  clarinetist — who  was  later  with  the  Gilmore  band 
—  and  as  he  had  coached  me  in  the  piano  parts  of 
Wieniawski's  "Legende,"  and  Prume's  "Melancholia,"  I 
was  forced  to  accompany  this  very  great  artist.  Remenyi 
played  with  passion  and  poesy.  The  climax  of  the 
evening  was  his  tender  interpretation  of  Schubert's  "Ser 
enade"  which  he  delivered  on  his  knees  before  my  mother, 
who  took  his  homage  in  good  temper.  My  father  was 
greatly  annoyed,  why,  I  can't  understand,  for  Remenyi 
was  all  smiles,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  "Parcel  of  fools," 
was  the  governor's  verdict  when  the  party  left.  That 
night  must  have  been  one  of  wild  revelry  according  to 


148  STEEPLEJACK 

the  report  of  Matus.  They  went  to  some  cafe  and  at 
seven  in  the  morning  were  quarrelling  over  a  question 
of  technique.  But  in  the  evening  Remenyi  played  in 
his  accustomed  form  at  the  Garden,  while  De  Vay 
eloquently  held  forth  at  a  garden  on  Girard  Avenue  be 
low  Seventh  Street. 

As  I  said,  old  man  Gaertner  came  off  second  best  in 
the  tilt  he  had  with  Remenyi.  (Remenyi  was  a  bit  of  a 
charlatan,  but  Gaertner  was  the  bigger  of  the  pair.) 
One  night,  after  the  Hungarian  virtuoso  had  finished  a 
Bach  Sonata,  unaccompanied — oh,  yes !  we  listened  to 
Bach  at  open-air  concerts  in  those  benighted  days— 
when  a  hissing  was  heard.  Remenyi  bowed.  "Will  the 
critic  who  hissed  my  Bach  please  make  himself  known?" 
he  said  in  his  ironic  manner.  Immediately  the  only 
Carl  Gaertner  arose,  anxious  to  vindicate  the  musical 
taste  of  the  town:  "You  play  Bach  like  a  fool!"  he 
roared.  Remenyi  smiled.  Then  in  a  burst  of  gener 
osity  he  tendered  his  violin  to  Gaertner,  adding:  "Per 
haps  I  do,  but  will  my  critic  show  me  how  not  to  play 
Bach  like  a  fool?"  He  underlined  "not,"  and  the  other 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  stalked  out  of  the  garden 
followed  by  howls  and  jeers.  Remenyi  won  that  time. 
The  occurrence  got  into  the  newspapers,  but  Carl  Gaert 
ner  never  turned  a  hair.  The  only  man  who  did  succeed 
in  taking  the  starch  out  of  his  ludicrous  dignity  was  a 
young  barytone,  Max  Heinrich  by  name,  afterwards  to 
become  a  significant  figure  in  the  musical  world.  One 
night,  a  wet  night,  after  much  music-making  at  the 
Cross  house,  the  party  went  in  search  of  more  refresh 
ment,  solid  and  liquid.  An  old  hostelry  stood  at  the 
corner  of  Race  and  Sixteenth  Streets  and  was  kept  by  a 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  149 

publican  named  Dunn.  The  place  was  noted  for  its  fish 
cakes  and  musty  ale.  There,  a  certain  convocation  took 
place,  and  during  its  progress,  Gaertner  said  something 
in  praise  of  Germany.  At  once,  Max  Heinrich  went  up 
into  the  air.  He  had  escaped  military  duty  in  Saxony 
and  had  become  an  ardent  lover  of  our  democracy.  He 
cursed  the  old  Kaiser,  he  cursed  Bismarck,  and  he  made 
so  much  noise  that  the  lobby  was  broken  up  by  Pop 
Dunn,  who  didn't  like  rows  on  his  premises  early  Sun 
day  morning.  Squabbling,  the  violinist  and  singer  went 
to  the  sidewalk  to  settle  their  differences.  Although  the 
elder,  Carl  Gaertner  was  a  powerful,  deep-chested  man 
with  muscles  like  steel,  he  would  have  made  mince-meat 
of  the  slender  Heinrich  if  he  could  have  reached  him. 
But  Max  knew  better.  Taking  a  glittering  weapon  from 
his  back  pocket  he  pointed  it  at  Gaertner  crying:  "Go 
down  on  your  knees  and  say  '  To  H-II  with  Bismarck ! ' 
or  Til  shoot  you  through  the  gizzard."  Scared,  the  old 
man  did  as  he  was  told  and  renounced  Bismarck  and  all 
his  works.  Then  Heinrich  shrieked  with  laughter.  It 
was  only  a  metal  shoe-buttoner,  that  pistol.  In  the 
fracas  some  one  lost  his  false  teeth  and  there  was  much 
rummaging  and  lighting  of  matches  before  they  were 
restored  to  the  owner.  But  after  that  affair,  Gaertner 
hid  his  patriotism  under  a  bushel. 

In  1916,  when  Heinrich  died,  he  was  as  implacable  a 
foe  to  his  Fatherland,  politically  considered,  as  in  the 
middle  seventies.  He  was  as  well-known  in  London  as 
in  San  Francisco  as  a  singer  of  Schubert,  Schumann,  and 
Brahms.  With  few  exceptions  I  never  met  a  man  so 
completely  an  artist  as  he.  His  voice  was  not  remarkable; 
a  barytone  with  a  low  range;  a  "basso  cantante,"  he 
called  himself.  His  tone  was  often  hard,  hollow,  "gum- 


150  STEEPLEJACK 

my,"  is  the  exact  word,  and  his  enunciation  guttural. 
He  never  mastered  English,  his  pronunciation  after  many 
years'  residence  here  and  in  England,  leaving  much  to 
be  desired,  yet  his  musical  intelligence,  the  emotional 
temperament,  carried  his  hearers  away,  literally  "on  the 
wings  of  song."  In  his  best  estate  his  work  in  "Elijah" 
or  any  of  the  classical  oratorios  was  unapproachable,  and 
he  had  plenty  of  rivals  in  that  field  with  more  sonorous 
voices,  Franz  Remmertz,  among  the  rest.  But  Heinrich 
outshone  them  all  musically;  the  intensity  of  his  dra 
matic  nature  transfigured  his  rather  commonplace  vocal 
resources.  His  versatility  was  best  expressed  in  song 
interpretations.  Such  an  emotional  range  and  feeling 
for  swiftly  changing  moods  I  have  never  heard  with  the 
exception  of  Marcella  Sembrich  and  Lilli  Lehmann.  And 
remember  that  he  had  no  personal  glamour,  in  the  sense 
of  good  looks,  as  had  these  women  singers;  his  bold 
hawk-like  profile,  and  too  narrow  face,  were  not  par 
ticularly  attractive,  had  he  not  such  brilliant  eyes  which 
mirrored  his  evanescent  moods.  He  was  magnetic,  light- 
hearted,  generous,  and  I  fear  that  he  hung  his  fiddle 
outside  the  door,  as  they  say  in  Ireland.  Yet  he  was  not 
only  the  "joy  of  the  street  and  the  sorrow  of  the  house 
hold"  but  also  a  joy  at  home.  A  more  loving  and  quick 
tempered  father  I  never  saw.  Happily  married  to  a 
musical  wife,  Anna  Schubert  Heinrich,  he  lived  every 
minute  he  could  spare  from  his  professional  duties — and 
a  game  of  pinochle — within  his  own  four  walls.  In  1876 
his  little  house  with  a  garden  in  front  was  on  Cherry 
below  Twentieth  Street.  It  is  there  to-day,  Max,  who 
was  the  father  of  at  least  eight  or  ten  children,  led  the 
life  of  an  artistic  sybarite.  His  versatility  was  not  con- 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  151 

fined  to  his  music — he  played  his  own  accompaniments 
in  an  incomparable  style — but  manifested  itself  in 
painting.  He  was  mad  over  landscape  and  animals. 
In  the  house,  besides  babies  which  sprawled  everywhere, 
you  would  encounter  a  wind-hound,  a  flute  on  four  legs, 
puppies  of  various  breeds  and  a  formidable  Russian 
mastiff,  broad  of  chest,  with  a  baying  voice  that  sent 
policemen  scurrying  round  the  block.  A  cruel  beast. 
I  often  saw  it  jump  from  a  second-story  window  to  the 
lawn  and  nab  a  cat  by  the  neck.  Crunch !  The  cat's 
spine  was  broken.  Max  named  the  brute  Bismarck.  I 
asked  him  why,  for  I  knew  he  hated  the  Iron  Chancellor. 
"Because  he  kills  so  many  cats/'  was  the  cryptic  reply, 
followed  by  peals  of  sarcastic  laughter.  There  was  a 
Mephisto  concealed  in  Heinrich. 

And  the  birds.  They  were  uncaged  and  owned  the 
house.  A  spectacle  for  the  gods  was  Max  Heinrich,  as 
stark  as  the  day  he  was  born,  pipe  in  mouth,  palette  in 
one  hand,  brush  in  the  other  sitting  in  his  half-filled 
bathtub  painting  an  imaginary  landscape,  the  easel 
stretched  across  the  tub.  "It's  cool!"  he  would  say,  on 
one  of  those  sweltering  August  mornings  when  other 
people's  vitality  would  be  depleted  by  such  sultry  con 
ditions;  he,  on  the  contrary,  was  more  noisy,  more  vig 
orous  than  ever.  The  joy  of  life !  That  he  had  as  few 
have  it.  He  tingled  with  vitality.  He  imparted  his 
high  spirits  to  his  companions.  The  babies  sat  up  and 
gurgled  when  he  passed,  the  birds  flew  to  his  shoulder, 
the  dogs  barked.  A  happy  household.  His  nervous 
wife  would  sometimes  go  outdoors  to  escape  this  trucu 
lent  happiness.  She  was  blonde,  charming,  possessing  a 
divine  patience,  not  only  as  a  mother  but  as  an  artiste. 


152  STEEPLEJACK 

She  sang  musically.  At  Concordia  Hall  I  saw  her  as 
Marguerite  to  her  husband's  Mephisto.  She  looked  the 
part  without  make-up.  It  was  as  a  guitar  virtuosa, 
however,  that  she  made  her  reputation.  She  mastered 
that  difficult  and  "ungrateful"  instrument,  making  it 
something  more  than  mere  string  strumming.  I  have 
heard  her  play  the  A  flat  study  of  Chopin,  the  "Aeolian 
Harp"  most  effectively.  The  little  menage  didn't  al 
ways  run  on  oiled  wheels,  for  Heinrich  was  a  bohemian 
to  whom  regular  hours  were  destructive  of  his  own  per 
sonal  rhythms — which  were  many.  He  earned  plenty  of 
money  and  spent  it,  though  his  family  came  first.  He  sang 
at  the  Cathedral,  where  my  mother  had  introduced  him 
to  Father  Elcock,  and  on  Saturdays  he  sang  at  the 
Hebrew  Synagogue  on  Broad  Street.  He  had  all  the 
brilliancy  and  versatility  of  the  Jewish  temperament; 
also  a  choleric  nature.  His  theory  was  that  if  you 
couldn't  do  a  thing  at  first  throw  out  of  the  box — it  was 
his  own  dicing  simile — then  you  would  never  do  it;  which  is 
pure  nonsense.  When  he  allowed  me  to  play  an  accom 
paniment  to  his  singing,  if  the  slightest  slip  or  stumble 
occurred  on  my  part,  he  would  slap  my  neck,  not  softly, 
and  curse  me  for  a  sloven.  He  got  over  this  irritable 
precipitancy  with  the  passage  of  the  years,  and  his  art 
gained  thereby  in  repose  and  mellowness.  During  the  last 
decade  of  his  life  his  singing  was  a  thing  of  beauty  be 
cause  of  its  profound  interpretative  power  and  pene 
trating  intensity.  A  dynamic  man.  He  was  the  first 
artist  I  saw  who  borrowed  from  a  music-critic;  the  other 
way  round  is  the  popular  belief.  Max  asked  H.  E. 
Krehbiel,  critic  of  the  New  York  Tribune,  for  a  five- 
dollar  bill.  He  got  it.  His  Cherry  Street  landlord  was 
Joshua  Gregg,  the  wool-man.  Heinrich  owed  a  month's 


MUSICAL   PHILADELPHIA  153 

rent.  Gregg  came  to  collect  it.  Max  sang  "The  Heart 
bowed  down  by  weight  of  woe,"  and  the  rent  was  re 
mitted  by  Gregg,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Oddly  enough,  he  was  only  a  Mendelssohn  singer  when 
I  first  knew  him;  and  the  old  barytone  repertory:  Lort- 
zing,  Mozart,  Marschner,  and  Abt,  yes  "Swallows 
Homeward  Fly"  Abt.  We  fought  about  the  merits  of 
Schubert  and  Schumann  till  he  took  them  up,  and  it 
wasn't  long  before  he  was  in  love  with  the  entire  song 
literatures.  At  a  time  when  Brahms  and  Robert  Franz 
were  rather  patronised  by  critics,  he  sang  both  with 
sympathy.  I  always  liked  him  better  than  I  did  George 
Henschel — who  also  played  the  piano — or  the  operatic 
Franz  Wtillner.  Heinrich,  on  a  bet,  studied  and  played 
Chopin's  E  flat  Polonaise,  at  that  time  so  exquisitely 
delivered  by  the  crystalline  fingers  of  Rafael  Joseffy; 
and  he  also  took  up  the  violin  for  a  year  and  played  the 
second  violin  in  Haydn's  D  minor  string  quartet.  This, 
too,  on  a  wager.  Naturally,  I  was  lost  in  the  penumbra 
of  this  irresistible  artist.  Older  by  ten  years,  neverthe 
less  he  made  a  companion  of  me,  calling  me  a  "pale 
face"  and  reproaching  me  for  not  being  man  enough  to 
take  a  drink  once  in  a  while  (every  ten  minutes).  But  I 
was  then  austere.  I  had  mapped  out  a  plan  of  study 
from  which  plan  I  never  swerved — at  least  for  an  hour 
or  two.  I  was  a  bit  of  a  prig.  I  didn't  dissolve  in  the 
warm  bath  of  these  ill-assorted  personalities.  I  pre 
ferred  the  companionship  of  Franz  Schubert — a  living 
human,  not  the  composer — who  was  the  brother  of  Mrs. 
Heinrich.  The  musical  furore  sounded  in  my  skull.  I 
had  heard  Rubinstein — and  couldn't  appreciate  him 
(1873),  kut  his  Calmuck  features,  Beethoven-like  head, 


154  STEEPLEJACK 

and  extravagant  gestures  fascinated  me.  His  playing 
was  velvet-thunder;  that's  the  fantastic  way  I  described 
it  to  myself.  Twenty  years  later,  when  I  heard  this 
giant  at  his  seven  historical  piano  recitals  in  Europe,  I 
took  his  true  measure — a  heaven-storming  one.  Von 
Billow  at  the  Academy  and  Annette  Essipova  at  As 
sociation  Hall,  both  during  the  season  of  1875-1876, 
filled  me  with  joy.  The  magic  brew  began  its  work. 
Never  had  the  law  seemed  a  drearier  mistress.  I  thought 
of  nothing  but  piano  technique;  my  experiments  in 
prestidigitation  were  transposed  from  cards  and  coins 
and  the  blossoming  of  conjurer's  flowers,  to  the  key 
board,  to  Mozart,  Haydn,  yes,  even  to  Carl  Czerny,  the 
indefatigable  chemist  who  distilled  studies  to  grease 
weak  fingers.  Max  Heinrich  encouraged  me.  My  father 
did  not.  As  an  experienced  amateur  he  foresaw  loose 
company,  irregular  hours,  and  the  drudgery  of  teaching. 
He  foresaw  clearly.  My  mother,  who  had  given  up  all 
hope  for  my  priestly  vocation,  thought  I  might  become 
an  organist  and  play  the  Cathloic  service  "Ad  majorem 
Dei  gloriam."  I  had  studied  piano  with  little  result  when 
a  child,  and  with  an  old  German  named  Carl  Rudolph, 
a  hornist  who  had  a  marked  sense  of  rhythm,  a  clear 
touch  but  no  technique  to  speak  of  on  the  pianoforte. 
He  could  play  dance  music  well,  the  old-fashioned  kind: 
Strauss,  the  elder,  Lanner,  Diabelli,  but  Chopin  was  a 
sealed  book  to  him.  Once  when  I  presumptuously  played 
"at"  the  "Military  Polonaise"  the  grey-haired  teacher 
shook  his  head,  saying:  "I  don't  call  that  music."  Later 
I  went  to  another  pedagogue,  but  he  stiffened  my  wrists 
and  fingers,  and  I  quit  him;  besides,  magic  held  my  in 
terest  then.  But  in  1875  ^  was  different.  I  heard  the 
call  and  obeyed  it,  and  have  regretted  doing  so  ever 
since — that  is,  when  I  look  at  my  bank-book. 


a 


3 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  155 

With  Franz  Schubert  I  traversed  the  entire  land  of 
literature  for  violin  and  piano;  but  my  ambition  excelled 
my  technical  ability.  I  was  a  "fmgersmith,"  to  be 
sure,  but  I  needed  a  solid  grounding  in  the  essentials 
of  the  art,  also  fundamental  brainwork,  as  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti  used  to  say.  In  my  predicament  I 
went  to  Michael  Cross  and  frankly  asked  him  to  help 
me,  telling  him  that  later  I  would  pay  him  for  his  in 
struction.  My  mother  joined  the  conspiracy,  my  father 
being  kept  in  ignorance  and  soon  I  was  launched  in  mid 
stream  as  a  student  of  the  piano.  My  music  copy-book 
tells  me  the  date,  number  of  lessons,  also  the  list  of  pieces 
undertaken.  September  25,  1875,  I  began;  I  ended  May, 
1878.  My  first  Sonata  was  the  Mozart  in  D,  the  last 
Beethoven's  opus  31,  No.  3.  To  take  lessons  I  had  to 
be  at  the  Cross  piano  at  six  A.  M.  He  was  an  early  riser. 
I  sneaked  out  of  the  house,  my  music  hidden  in  my  coat, 
for  fear  of  meeting  my  father — usually  gone  on  his  busi 
ness  before  that  hour.  He  was  no  doubt  surprised  at 
my  activity  but  never  suspected  the  cause.  At  nine 
A.  M.  I  was  at  my  desk  in  the  office  of  Daniel  M.  Fox 
ready  for  the  transcription  of  some  dull  will  or  deed  of 
real  estate.  My  leisure  hours  were  devoted  to  music- 
study.  I  got  along  fairly  well,  though  I  had  to  unlearn 
lots  when  I  went  to  other  masters.  Michael  Cross  was 
not  modern  in  his  treatment  of  the  piano;  furthermore, 
he  gave  his  pupils  more  Mozart  than  Bach;  he  believed 
more  in  the  lyric  than  the  polyphonic.  He  played  Bach, 
though  I  never  heard  his  Bach  on  the  organ;  Mozart 
was  his  passion,  and  an  admirable  passion  it  is;  but 
his  pupils  suffered  for  want  of  variety,  just  as  the  Roth 
scholars  suffered  from  too  much  Latin.  Jarvis  should 
have  been  my  teacher.  He  began  with  Hummel  and 


156  STEEPLEJACK 

Bach.  He  believed  in  a  sound  technical  apparatus,  then 
the  music  (if  you  had  any  in  you)  would  take  care  of 
itself.  Cross  practised  the  reverse.  Music  first,  tech 
nique  afterwards — all  very  well  for  a  finished  artist  but 
hampering  to  a  student.  Once,  when  I  had  played  Men 
delssohn's  "Rondo  Capriccioso"  too  glibly,  he  put  me  on 
a  simpler  diet  and  banished  finger-studies.  Since  then  I 
have  gone  to  the  opposite  extreme  and  swallowed  too 
many  technical  studies  with  consequent  digital  indiges 
tion.  When  you  study  piano,  study  with  a  pianist. 
Michael  was  not  a  specialist.  I  remember  Theodore 
Thomas  telling  me  years  later  that  he  found  the  choral 
bodies  trained  by  Cross  remiss  as  to  attack,  intonation, 
and  rhythmic  sense;  all  of  which  may  have  been  an  ill- 
tempered  slur  of  the  great  conductor. 

Time  fugued  by.  I  became  a  slacker  as  far  as  the  law 
was  concerned.  I  was  always  at  the  heels  of  Max  Hein- 
rich,  or  playing  the  bass  in  piano  duos,  Mrs.  Heinrich 
taking  the  treble.  Musically,  I  owe  much  to  that  amia 
ble  and  estimable  woman.  And  I  closely  hugged  the 
neighbourhood  where  I  might  hear  Mr.  Jarvis  play,  or 
the  Cross  string  quartet.  There  were  summer  nights 
when  I  leaned  out  of  my  window  longing  for  music.  I 
could  hear  the  soft  strains  from  the  back  garden — we 
were  removed  from  the  Cross  music  room  by  two  houses 
—and  I  dreamed  and  yearned,  as  only  a  lad  love-sick 
with  art  can  yearn.  Life  stretched  like  a  lyric  ray  of 
moonlight  paving  the  silvery  waters  of  the  future. 
Nothing  seemed  impossible.  All  was  permitted.  I  felt 
an  invincible  force  within  my  veins — the  swelling  sap ! 
Ah !  Youth  is  immortal.  But  youth  can't  always  foot 
the  bills.  My  father  had  to.  The  secret  came  out,  and 


MUSICAL   PHILADELPHIA  157 

he  promptly  paid  my  three  years'  tuition  without  grum 
bling.  Michael  was  a  life-long  friend,  a  lover  of  engrav 
ings,  too,  and  on  his  walls  hung  several  masterpieces, 
gifts  from  my  father.  A  cultivated  man,  Mr.  Cross,  the 
owner  of  a  well-assorted  library,  in  which  I  browsed  for 
years,  and  a  man  who  attracted  friends;  indeed,  he 
was  the  object  of  friendships  rather  than  friendly  him 
self.  He  was  self-contained,  frigid  at  times,  but  could 
unbutton  in  the  seclusion  of  his  music-study.  A  high 
liver,  he  held  the  championship  for  disposing  of  edibles 
and  liquids.  The  late  Dennis  McGowan,  then  at  San- 
som  and  Fifteenth  Streets,  told  me  that  when  Michael 
Cross  was  in  his  prime  he  would  open  a  hundred  and  odd 
oysters  for  him  at  a  sitting,  and  saw  them  washed  down 
with  tankards  and  tankards  of  "musty."  But  it  should 
not  be  forgotten  that  he  was  a  huge  man  physically,  not 
so  monstrous  in  size  as  Billy  Ware,  but  of  a  Brobding- 
nagian  presence  and  capacity.  I  envied  him  then;  I 
envy  him  now.  Apart  from  his  annual  attack  of  gout 
no  one  ever  saw  him  the  worse  for  all  this.  With  a  punc 
tuality  that  was  chronic  he  occupied  his  organ  bench  in 
the  choir  of  the  Cathedral  and  often  played  so  expres 
sively  after  High  Mass  that  my  mother  would  say  to 
me:  " Michael  played  as  if  inspired  to-day,"  and  when  I 
repeated  this  he  would  reply,  his  eye  twinkling:  "Yes, 
at  Van  Hook's  last  night."  He  didn't  mean  to  be  cynical 
nor  was  he  a  materialist;  but  he  knew  the  law  of  metabol 
ism.  He  knew  that  rich  food  and  fermented  drink  was  a 
nourishment  that  might  be  transmuted  into  beautiful 
sounds  by  accomplished  musicians.  Plain  living  and 
high  thinking  is  well  enough  for  saints  or  philosophers 
but  not  for  sinners  or  singers. 

The  Van  Hook  he  referred  to  had  a  restaurant  at  the 


1 58  STEEPLEJACK 

northeast  corner  of  Twentieth  and  Tower  Streets.  It 
had  a  wide  vogue.  The  proprietor  was  a  handsome 
blond  man,  hospitable  as  the  night  was  long,  and  a 
famous  contriver  of  mixed  drinks.  But  the  glory  of  the 
place  was  the  cooking  of  Mrs.  "Billy"  Van  Hook,  then 
a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  young  matron  with  a  fried- 
oyster  technique  only  second  to  Finelli's  down  Chestnut 
Street.  There  were  some  connoisseurs  who  preferred 
the  Van  Hook  interpretation.  Her  chicken  and  lobster 
salads,  her  deviled  crabs  were  masterpieces  in  miniature. 
It  was  not  alone  the  artistic  and  musical  crowd  that 
patronised  the  Van  Hooks;  club  men  from  Walnut 
Street  found  their  way  to  the  little  restaurant,  those 
dashing  young  bucks,  Jack  McFadden  and  AI  Hether- 
ington,  among  the  rest.  But  the  Cross,  Jarvis,  Gaert- 
ner,  Billy  Ware — a  marvellous  virtuoso  with  the  oyster- 
fork — Max  Heinrich  party  went  to  Van  Hook's  as  to  a 
church.  Max  called  it  "St.  Billy's"  and  Billy  would  re 
tort:  "Not  for  too  many  bills";  he  was  easy  in  money 
matters  and  when  in  hard  luck  he  helped  a  fellow  through. 
He  never  had  the  reputation  for  terrapin  enjoyed  by 
McGowan  or  Augustine,  but  Michael  Cross  always 
swore  that  his  most  malignant  gout  was  developed  by 
Mrs.  Van  Hook's  terrapin.  You  must  not  suppose  that 
Schubert  and  I  were  intimately  admitted  in  the  sacred 
circle;  we  were  happy  witnesses,  contemporaries.  I,  as 
a  pupil  of  Cross,  Franz  as  a  brother-in-law  of  Heinrich. 
But  it  was  no  Barmecide's  feast  for  us.  We  swallowed 
real  food  and  drink  while  our  seniors  swallowed  theirs, 
and  we  saw  some  strange  doings.  Proving  that  time  oc 
casionally  halts,  I  may  add  that  the  same  Mrs.  Van 
Hook — more  power  to  her  elbow — still  lives,  cooks,  and 
has  her  being,  in  a  restaurant,  bearing  her  name,  behind 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  159 

the  Custom  House,  where  the  oysters  are  fried  under  her 
surveillance  and  where  (tell  it  not  in  Gath  or  Gotham) 
they  taste  as  they  did  forty  years  ago.  After  that,  don't 
speak  to  me  about  time,  its  whirligigs  and  caprices. 

Strange  to  say,  despite  his  marked  dramatic  aptitude 
and  personality,  Max  Heinrich  was  not  a  success  as  an 
operatic  singer.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  Company,  New  York,  for  several  seasons.  I 
think  1887-1888,  perhaps  earlier,  but  with  the  exception 
of  a  fairly  good  characterisation  of  the  Night  Watch 
man  in  The  Mastersingers,  and  other  minor  roles,  he 
did  not  shine  in  comparison  with  such  acting-singers  as 
Emil  Fischer,  Robinson,  von  Milde,  or  the  mighty  Albert 
Niemann.  His  art  was  essentially  intimate,  and  destined 
for  the  smaller  spaces  of  the  concert  stage,  and  not  for 
the  broader  key  of  fresco-painting,  which  is  the  operatic. 
But  give  him  a  grand  piano,  a  sympathetic  audience,  and 
he  could  make  you  forget  all  the  gauds  and  chicaneries 
of  opera,  and  the  inartistic  bellowing  of  opera-singers. 
He  was  a  rare  artist,  Heinrich,  and  it  is  a  peculiar  satis 
faction  to  his  friends  that  his  mantle  has  fallen  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  daughter,  Julia  Heinrich,  soprano,  born 
in  Philadelphia,  educated  by  her  father,  an  opera-singer 
in  New  York,  as  well  as  on  the  continent,  but  a  concert- 
singer  born.  She  is  vocally  better  equipped  than  was 
her  father,  she  has  his  musical  memory  and  the  special 
art  of  accompaniment.  In  the  latter  art,  he  drilled  me 
for  years,  and  even  to-day  when  I  support  a  singer  at 
the  piano  I  have  a  freezing  sensation  on  the  nape  of  my 
neck.  It  is  the  functioning  of  my  memory-cells  through 
association  of  ideas.  My  neck  remembers  the  slaps  ad 
ministered  by  Max,  as  he  sang,  making  an  occasional 
parenthesis  such  as:  "Chim,  verdammte  Esel!  why 


160  STEEPLEJACK 

don't  you  keep  time?"  And  the  "damnable  ass"  would 
bow  his  head  to  the  anticipated  blow.  It  never  failed  to 
register. 

I  have  taken  some  pains  to  describe  the  man  and  my 
admiration  for  him.  Yet,  such  is  the  irony  of  the  years, 
the  last  time  I  saw  him,  several  months  before  his  death, 
and  in  company  with  Julia  Heinrich,  we  disputed  like 
a  pair  of  old  fools  over  trifling  data.  He  had  the  rather 
unusual  weakness  of  pretending  to  be  older  than  he 
was,  and  he  persisted  in  treating  me  as  a  child  no  older 
than  I  was  in  1876;  childish,  withal,  we  called  each  other 
familiar,  though  not  complimentary  names.  I  was  again 
"Chim"  the  "Esel,"  and  secretly  I  was  scared.  There 
was  fire  in  the  eye  of  the  old  war-horse.  The  extinct 
volcano  spouted  again.  I  was  glad  to  see  such  vitality. 
He  said  he  was  seventy-two  years  of  age;  he  was  only 
sixty-six.  I  told  him  so.  He  called  me  a  liar.  The 
joke  was  that  his  New  York  friends  and  admirers  gave 
him  an  elaborate  dinner  on  his  seventieth  birthday.  I 
asked  him  why.  He  couldn't  help  smiling.  His  daughter 
smiled.  We  all  smiled.  And  that's  the  last  I  saw  of  Max 
Heinrich  in  the  flesh.  He  was  one  of  the  formative  in 
fluences  in  my  irregular  life.  Wild  as  he  was,  he  steadied 
me,  not  because  I  took  him  as  an  example  to  be  avoided 
— as  my  mother  said  I  should;  and  as  I  did  in  the  case 
of  George  Woodward  Wickersham,  whose  concentration 
had  something  inhuman  about  it  ("If  Sam  would  only 
take  a  drink  or  smoke  a  pipe,"  his  uncle  would  despair 
ingly  exclaim);  but  because  Heinrich  embodied  all  I 
admired  as  an  interpretative  artist.  I  dissociated  the 
man  from  the  singer.  He  dragged  me  with  him  every 
where;  to  the  choir  of  the  Cathedral,  to  the  Broad  Street 
"Shool,"  where  I  first  heard  the  magnificent  Hebrew 


MUSICAL  PHILADELPHIA  161 

cantillations,  which,  coming  from  an  antique  civilisa 
tion,  Egypt,  filtered  through  the  ages  to  the  ritual  of 
Mother  Church;  an  echo  may  be  found  in  our  Plain- 
Chant. 


XIV 

MY  FRIENDS  THE  JEWS 

"How  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange 
land?"  I  couldn't  help  recalling  these  words  of  the 
Psalmist,  these  and  the  opening,  "By  the  rivers  of 
Babylon,"  in  which  is  compressed  the  immemorial 
melancholy  of  an  enslaved  race,  when  I  heard  Sophie 
Braslau  intone  with  her  luscious  contralto  a  touching 
Hebrew  lament,  "Eili  Eili  lomo  asovtoni?"  at  a  con 
cert.  Naturally  I  believed  the  melody  to  be  the  echo 
of  some  tribal  chant  sung  in  the  days  of  the  Babylonian 
captivity,  and  perhaps  before  that  in  the  time  of  the 
prehistoric  Sumerians  and  the  epic  of  Gilgamesh.  Others 
have  made  the  same  error.  Judge  of  my  surprise  when 
in  a  copy  of  The  American  Jewish  News  I  read  that  the 
composer  of  "Eili  Eili"  is  living,  that  his  name  is  Jacob 
Kopel  Sandier,  that  he  wrote  the  music  for  a  historical 
drama,  "Die  B'ne  Moishe"  ("The  Sons  of  Moses"), 
which  deals  with  the  Chinese  Jews.  Mr.  Sandier  had 
composed  the  song  for  Sophie  Carp,  a  Yiddish  actress  and 
singer.  The  "Sons  of  Moses"  was  a  failure,  and  a  new 
piece,  "Broche,  the  Jewish  King  of  Poland,"  was  pre 
pared.  (Not  alluding  to  Pan  Dmowski.)  It  was  pro 
duced  at  the  Windsor  Theatre  in  the  Bowery.  The  song, 
not  the  play,  was  a  success.  Then  the  music  drifted 
into  queer  company,  for  music  is  a  living  organism  and 
wanders  when  it  is  not  controlled.  Finally  Sophie  Bras 
lau  got  hold  of  it,  and  the  composer,  who  was  directing 

162 


MY  FRIENDS  THE  JEWS  163 

a  choir  in  a  Bronx  synagogue,  was  astounded  to  hear 
of  the  acclamations  of  a  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
Sunday  night  audience.  His  daughter  had  listened  to 
"Eili  Eili"  and  brought  home  the  good  news.  After 
troublesome  preliminaries  " Meyer  Beer,"  the  pen-name 
of  the  musical  editor  of  The  American  Jewish  News,  was 
able  to  prove  beyond  peradventure  of  a  doubt  the  ar 
tistic  parentage  of  the  song,  and  Jacob  Sandier  is  in  a 
fair  way  of  being  idolised  in  his  community,  as  he  should 
be. 

"Eili  Eili  lomo  asovtoni?"  may  be  found  in  Psalm 
22,  the  first  line  of  the  second  verse  in  Hebrew.  In  the 
English  version  the  words  of  David  are  in  the  first  verse : 
"My  God,  my  God,  why  has  thou  forsaken  me?"  And 
in  St.  Mark's  gospel  we  read:  "And  at  the  ninth  hour 
Jesus  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  saying  'Eloi,  Eloi,  lama 
sabachthani?'  which  is,  being  interpreted:  'My  God,  my 
God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?>:>  (chapter  15,  verse 
34.)  The  exegetists  and  apologists,  as  well  as  sciolists, 
have  made  of  this  immortal  phrase  a  bone  of  theological 
contention.  Schmiedel,  who  with  Harnack  believes  the 
words  to  have  been  uttered  by  our  Saviour,  nevertheless 
points  out  various  details  which  prefigure  the  same  things 
in  the  crucifixion — the  just  man  hanging  on  the  stake,  the 
perforated  hands  and  feet,  the  mocking  crowd,  the  sol 
diers  gambling  for  the  clothes,  everything  takes  place  as 
described  in  the  Psalm.  Lublinski  (in  Dogma,  p.  93) 
and  Arthur  Drews  (in  The  Historicity  of  Jesus,  p. 
150)  demur  at  the  orthodox  Christian  conclusions  of 
Harnack  and  Schmiedel.  A  beloved  master,  the  late 
Solomon  Schechter,  disposed  of  the  question  in  his 
usual  open  style.  "The  world  is  big  enough,"  he  has 
said  to  me,  for  both  Jehovah  and  Jesus,  "for  two  such 


164  STEEPLEJACK 


grand  faiths  as  the  Hebrew  and  the  Christian."  But  he 
saw  Christianity  only  in  its  historical  sequence,  and  not 
as  a  continuator  of  Judaism;  rather,  a  branching  away 
from  the  main  trunk.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Constan- 
tine,  the  world  might  be  worshipping  Mithra  to-day,  was 
the  erudite  and  worthy  man's  belief.  Enveloped  in  the 
mists  of  the  first  two  centuries  Christianity  seems  to  have 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  the  doctrines  of  Mithraism. 
That  Salomon  Reinach  practically  admits  in  his  Or 
pheus,  a  most  significant  study  of  comparative  relig 
ions  from  the  pen  of  this  French  savant. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  played  the  organ  in  a  "shool,"  a 
reformed,  not  an  orthodox,  synagogue;  played  indiffer 
ently  well.  But  my  acquaintance  with  the  Jewish  liturgy 
dates  back  to  my  boyhood  in  Philadelphia,  where  I 
studied  Hebrew,  in  company  with  Latin.  The  reason? 
My  mother  fondly  hoped  that  I  might  become  a  priest 
— the  very  thought  of  which  makes  me  shudder  now. 
The  religious  in  me  found  vent  in  music  and  my  love  of 
change  was  gratified  by  playing  the  Hebrew  service  on 
Shabbas  (Saturday)  and  the  Roman  Catholic  on  our 
Sabbath.  Probably  that  is  why  I  was  affected  by  Sophie 
Braslau's  singing  of  "Eili  Eili." 

I  have  always  entertained  a  peculiar  admiration  for 
the  Jews  and  Judaism.  It  began  with  the  study  of 
Semitic  literature  of  the  Talmud,  above  all  of  Hebrew 
poetry,  the  most  sublime  in  any  language,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  asserts  in  his  comparative  estimate  of  Greek  and 
Hebraic  cultures.  My  dearest  friends  have  been,  still 
are,  of  that  race.  Prejudice,  social  or  political,  against 
the  Jew  I  not  only  detest,  but  I  have  never  been  able  to 
comprehend.  My  early  playmates  were  Jewish  boys 
and  girls.  I  have  stood  under  the  "Choopah"  (mar- 


MY   FRIENDS  THE  JEWS  165 

riage  canopy)  and  have  seen  many  a  Bar-Mitzvah;  even 
sat  "Shivah"  for  the  dead  father  of  intimate  friends. 
From  Rafael  Joseffy  to  Georg  Brandes;  from  the  bril 
liant  Hungarian  virtuoso  that  was  Joseffy — whose  father, 
a  learned  rabbi,  I  visited  at  Budapest — in  Pest-Ofen — in 
1903,  when  he  was  eighty -four,  an  Orientalist,  a  linguist 
with  twenty-six  languages,  ancient  and  modern,  at  the  tip 
of  his  tongue — to  Professor  Brandes,  the  Danish  scholar, 
an  intellectual  giant,  and  a  critic  in  the  direct  line  of 
Sainte-Beuve  and  Taine — both  men  I  knew  and  loved. 
Whether  the  Jew  has  attained  the  summits  as  a  creator 
in  the  Seven  Arts  I  cannot  speak  authoritatively,  although 
the  Old  Testament  furnishes  abundant  evidences  that  he 
has  in  poetry.  Disraeli  (Beaconsfield),  who  liked  to 
tease  Gladstone  by  calling  him  "Frohstein"  and  pointing 
to  his  rugged  Jewish  prophet's  features,  has  written  of 
his  race  most  eloquently.  I  should  like  to  quote  a  pas 
sage  in  its  entirety;  time  and  space  forbid.  But  an 
excerpt  I  permit  myself  the  luxury  of  reproducing: 
"The  ear,  the  voice,  the  fancy  teeming  with  combina 
tions,  the  inspiration  fervid  with  picture  and  emotion, 
that  came  from  Caucasus,  and  which  we  have  preserved 
unpolluted,  have  endowed  us  with  almost  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  music;  that  science  of  harmonious  sounds 
which  the  ancients  recognise  as  most  divine  and  deified 
in  the  person  of  their  most  beautiful  creation.  .  .  ."  He 
goes  on:  "There  is  not  a  company  of  singers,  not  an 
orchestra  in  a  single  capital,  that  is  not  crowded  with 
our  children  under  feigned  names  which  they  adopt  to 
conciliate  the  dark  aversion  which  your  posterity  will 
some  day  disclaim  with  shame  and  disgust.  .  .  ." 

Lord  Beaconsfield  mentions  Rossini,  Meyerbeer,  Men 
delssohn  as  Jewish  composers,  and  Pasta  and  Grisi  among 


1 66  STEEPLEJACK 

the  singers.  Probably  he  had  not  heard  Rossini's  witti 
cism  uttered  on  his  deathbed:  "For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
bury  me  in  the  Jewish  cemetery!"  Nor  did  Beacons- 
field  look  far  enough  ahead  when  he  wrote  "dark  aver 
sion" — which  phrase  is  wonderful.  To-day  the  boot  is  on 
the  other  leg.  It  may  be  Gentiles  who  will  be  forced  to 
change  their  names  to  Jewish.  I  could  easily  sign  my 
self  "Shamus  Hanuchah "-  —leaving  out  the  "lichts" — 
or  pattern  after  the  name  Paderewski  jokingly  wrote  on 
his  photograph:  "For  Jacob  Hunekerstein." 

And  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  know  Jews  who 
themselves  are  ashamed  of  having  been  born  Jews. 
Incredible  !  In  Vienna  I  have  seen  St.  Stefan's  Cathedral 
crowded  at  the  u  o'clock  High  Mass  by  most  fervent 
worshippers,  the  majority  of  whom  seemed  Semitic, 
which  prompted  me  to  propound  the  riddle:  When  is  a 
Jew  not  a  Jew?  Answer:  When  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic 
in  Vienna.  But  you  never  can  tell.  As  Joseffy  used  to 
say  when  some  musician  with  a  nose  like  the  Ten  Com 
mandments  was  introduced,  as,  for  example,  Monsieur 
Fontaine.  "He  means  Brunnen,  or,  in  Hebrew,  Pischa. 
He  is  not  a  Jew,  but  his  grandmother  wore  a  'scheitel," 
(the  wig  still  worn  by  orthodox  Jewish  women).  The 
truth  is  that  among  the  virtuosi,  singers,  actors,  the  Jew 
holds  first  place.  Liszt  and  Paganini  are  the  exceptions, 
and  Paganini  could  easily  pass  in  an  east-side  crowd  as 
Jehudah.  As  to  the  Wagner  controversy,  not  started  by 
Nietzsche,  but  by  Rossini  and  Meyerbeer,  who  referred 
to  Wagner  as  Jewish,  that  was  settled  by  O.  G.  Sonneck 
in  his  little  book,  Was  Wagner  a  Jew?  but  only  after  I 
had  introduced  to  the  columns  of  The  New  York  Times 
Sunday  Magazine  in  1913  a  book  by  Otto  Bournot,  en 
titled,  Ludwig  Geyer.  Geyer  was,  as  you  may  remem- 


MY   FRIENDS  THE  JEWS  167 

her,  the  stepfather  of  Richard  Wagner.  Bournot  had 
access  to  the  Baireuth  archives  and  delved  into  the 
newspapers  of  Geyer's  days.  August  Bottiger's  Nec 
rology  had  hitherto  been  the  chief  source.  Mary  Bur- 
rell's  Life  of  Wagner  was  the  first  to  give  the  true  spelling 
of  the  name  of  Wagner's  mother,  which  was  Bertz,  which 
may  be  Jewish  or  German,  as  you  like. 

The  Geyers  as  far  back  as  1700  were  pious  folk.  The 
first  of  the  family  mentioned  in  local  history  was  a  cer 
tain  Benjamin  Geyer,  who  about  1700  was  a  trombone 
player  and  organist.  Indeed,  the  Geyers  were  largely 
connected  with  the  Evangelical  Church.  Ludwig  Geyer, 
virtually  acknowledged  by  Baireuth  as  the  real  father  of 
Richard  Wagner,  looked  Jewish  (which  proves  nothing, 
as  I  have  seen  dark,  Semitic  fisher-folk  on  the  coast  of 
Galway)  and  displayed  Jewish  versatility.  For  that 
matter  the  composer  von  Weber  looked  like  a  Jew,  as 
does  Camille  Saint-Saens.  When  I  ventured  to  write 
of  this  racial  trait — much  more  marked  in  his  youth — 
the  French  composer  sent  me  a  denial,  sarcastically  ask 
ing  how  a  man  with  such  a  "holy51  name  as  "Saint- 
Saens"  could  be  Jewish.  But  Leopold  Godowsky,  who 
was  intimate  with  him,  told  me  that  he  took  his 
mother's  name.  As  to  Wagner,  a  little  story  may  suffice. 
In  1896  I  attended  the  Wagner  festival  at  Baireuth. 
Between  performances  I  tramped  the  Franconian  hills. 
My  toes  hurt.  Looking  for  a  corn-cutter,  I  found 
one  not  far  from  the  Wagner  house.  The  old  chap 
seated  me  in  his  doorway,  probably  to  get  better  light, 
and  as  he  crouched  over  my  feet  in  the  street  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  known  Richard  Wagner.  "Know  Wag 
ner!"  he  irascibly  replied.  "He  passed  my  shop  every 
day.  Many  the  times  I  cut  his  corns.  Oh,  no  !  not  here, 


1 68  STEEPLEJACK 

over  yonder" — he  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
Wahnfried.  I  inquired  what  kind  of  a  looking  man  was 
Wagner.  "He  was  a  little  bow-legged  Jew,  and  he  always 
wore  a  long  cloak  to  hide  his  crooked  legs."  Enfm !  the 
truth  from  the  mouth  of  babes.  This  beats  Nietzsche 
and  his  "Vulture"  Geyer. 

Not  religion,  not  nationality,  but  race,  counts  in  the 
individual.  Wagner  looked  like  a  Jew.  And  there  are 
many  red-haired  Jews  with  pug  noses  and  light  blue  eyes. 
Renan  in  Le  Judaisme  has  shown  us  how  non- Jewish 
elements  were  in  the  course  of  time  incorporated  within 
the  race.  The  Chazars  of  Eastern  Europe  are  Jews  only 
a  thousand  years  old.  Dr.  Brandes  in  a  confession  of 
his  views  on  the  subject  has  said — in  The  Journal  Jor 
Jewish  History  and  Literature,  published  at  Stockholm 
(Tei dscript  for  Judisk  Historia),  and  quoted  by  Bernard 
G.  Richards  in  a  capital  study  of  Brandes — "from  the 
fifteenth  to  the  sixteenth  year  of  my  life  I  regarded 
Judaism  purely  as  a  religion."  But  when  he  was  abused 
as  a  Jew  then  Georg  Brandes  felt  himself  a  genuine  Jew. 
Many  a  man  has  found  himself  in  a  similar  position. 
Atavistic  impulses,  submerged,  may  explain  why  certain 
men,  Gentiles,  scholars,  by  nature  noncombatants,  have 
left  their  peaceful  study,  jeopardised  their  life,  ruined  their 
reputation,  to  battle  for  an  obscure  Jew,  Dreyfus.  Zola, 
of  Greek-Levantine  origin,  perhaps  Italian  and  Jew,  was 
one  of  those  valiant  souls  who  fought  for  the  truth.  Ana- 
tole  France,  born  Thibault,  another.  Count  Thibault,  at 
the  time  of  the  Dreyfus  uproar,  challenged  the  great  writer 
who  signs  himself  Anatole  France  to  prove  his  right  to  that 
distinguished  Roman  Catholic  name.  That  the  gentle 
Anatole  is  the  very  spit  and  spawn  of  a  Jew,  as  appear 
ance  goes;  that  since  Heine  (baptised  a  Christian) 


MY  FRIENDS  THE  JEWS  169 

no  such  union  of  mocking  irony  and  tender,  poetic  emo 
tion  can  be  noted  in  the  work  of  any  writer,  are  alike 
valueless  as  testimony.  Nevertheless,  many  believe  in 
this  Hebraic  strain;  just  as  they  feel  it  in  the  subtlety  of 
Cardinal  Newman's  writing — he  was  of  Dutch  stock — 
and  in  the  humour  of  Charles  Lamb.  Both  Englishmen 
are  authoritatively  accredited  with  the  "precious  quintes 
sence,"  as  Du  Maurier  would  say. 

I  have  stood  a  lot  of  good-natured  fun  poked  at  me 
for  my  Jewish  propensity.  I  can  stand  it,  as  there 
is  a  solid  substratum  of  history  for  my  speculations. 
Some  years  ago  The  Contemporary  Review  printed  an 
article  entitled  "The  Jew  in  Music,"  with  this  motto 
from  Oscar  Wilde's  Salome:  "The  Jews  believe  only  in 
what  they  cannot  see."  The  writer's  name  was  signed: 
A.  E.  Keeton.  Not  even  the  assertion  that  Beethoven 
was  a  Belgian  is  half  so  iconoclastic  as  some  of  the  as 
sumptions  made  in  this  study.  "When  Mozart  first 
appeared  as  a  prodigy  before  the  future  Queen  of  France, 
Marie  Antoinette,  she  announced  that  'a  genius  must 
not  be  a  Jew."  The  original  name  Ozart  was  changed. 
Mozart  was  baptised.  Which  anecdote  makes  the  scalp 
to  freeze,  though  not  because  of  its  verisimilitude.  Bee 
thoven  and  Rubinstein  looked  alike;  ergo !  But  then 
they  didn't.  In  the  case  of  Chopin  he  was  certainly 
Jewish-looking,  especially  in  the  Winterhalter  and 
Kwiatowski  portraits.  His  father  came  from  Nancy, 
in  Lorraine,  thickly  populated  by  Jews.  The  original 
name,  Szopen,  or  Szop,  is  Jewish.  His  music,  especially 
the  first  Scherzo  in  B  minor,  has  a  Heine-like  irony,  and 
irony  is  a  prime  characteristic  of  the  Chosen  (or  Choosing, 
as  Zangwill  puts  it)  race.  But  all  this  is  in  the  key  of 
wildest  surmise.  Wagner  was  born  in  the  ghetto  at 


i7o  STEEPLEJACK 

Leipsic;  yet  that  didn't  make  him  Jewish,  any  more  than 
the  baptism  of  Mendelssohn  made  him  Christian. 
Georges  Bizet  was  of  Jewish  origin,  he  looked  Jewish; 
but  the  fact  that  he  married  the  daughter  of  Halevy 
(Ha-Levi),  the  composer  of  La  Juive,  didn't  make  the 
composer  of  Carmen  a  Jew.  Neither  religion  nor  na 
tionality  are  more  than  superficial  factors  in  the  na 
ture  of  men  and  women.  Race  alone  counts. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  wrote  a  Jewish  story,  The  Shofar 
Blew  at  Sunset.  Maggie  Cline  liked  it;  so  did  Israel 
Zangwill.  I  preserve  a  letter  from  Mr.  Zangwill  telling 
me  of  his  liking.  The  story  appeared  in  M'  lie  New  York, 
now  defunct.  It  was  afterwards  translated  into  Yid 
dish,  though  it  did  not  give  general  satisfaction  in  either 
camp,  Jewish  or  Christian.  It  revelled  in  the  cantilla- 
tions  and  employed  as  leading  -  motive  the  Shofar,  or 
ram's-horn  blown  in  the  synagogues  on  Yom  Kippur  or 
the  Day  of  Atonement.  The  scroll  of  the  Torah  also 
appeared.  But  these  liturgical  references  didn't  offend; 
it  was  my  surprising  denunciation  of  Jewish  materialism 
in  New  York  that  proved  the  rock  of  offence.  I  say  sur 
prising,  for  what  is  a  Christian-born  doing  in  another 
field  and  finding  fault?  I'm  sure  I  can't  say  why,  un 
less  that  in  writing  the  tale  I  unconsciously  dramatised 
myself  as  a  reproaching  voice.  There  was  much  in  my 
strictures  of  that  son  of  Hanan  who  prowled  through  the 
streets  of  the  Holy  City  in  the  year  A.  D.  62,  crying 
aloud:  "Woe,  woe  upon  Jerusalem!"  I  remember  that 
I  predicted  because  of  the  luxury  of  the  American  Jew 
lofty  Jewish  idealism  might  be  submerged  in  a  flood 
of  indifference  and  disbelief.  Prosperity  would  prove 
the  snag.  In  the  heart  of  the  Jew  is  the  true  Zion,  not 
in  success  nor  in  some  far-away  land.  Naturally,  that 


MY  FRIENDS  THE  JEWS  171 

didn't  please  the  Zionists.  One  professional  Jewish  jour 
nal  said  that  I  preached  like  a  rabbi  (Reb),  but  thought 
like  a  goi.  The  word  "Chutzpah"  was  also  used.  Yet, 
wasn't  I  right?  It  is  the  spiritual  Ark  of  the  Covenant, 
the  spirit  of  the  law,  and  not  the  letter  that  killeth, 
which  should  be  enshrined  in  the  heart  of  the  Jew. 
He  may  dream  of  Palestine,  of  its  skies  of  the  "few 
large  stars,"  a  land  overflowing  with  milk  and  honey; 
but  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  it  is  the  living  God 
to  whom  he  must  go  for  spiritual  sustenance.  God 
the  eternal  reservoir  of  our  earthly  certitudes !  Schma' 
Ysroel! 

And  now  for  fear  that  all  this  sounds  more  like  a  ser 
mon  than  a  sonnet — and  I'm  in  earnest,  not  forgetting 
that  the  lofty  ethics  of  the  Old  Testament  apply  quite 
as  much  to  Christians  as  to  Jews — I'll  conclude  with  the 
statement  that  the  most  Jewish  composer  I  know  of, 
bar  none,  is  Ernest  Bloch,  a  Swiss  musician  residing  in  New 
York  City.  He  has  great  gifts,  abundant  science,  and  an 
inborn  sense  of  orchestral  colour  and  rhythms.  I  heard 
him  conduct  a  concert  at  Philadelphia  entirely  devoted 
to  his  own  works.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  emotional 
impression  created  by  his  "Solomon"  for  violoncello  solo 
and  orchestra,  interpreted  on  the  solo  instrument  by  that 
splendid  young  artist,  Hans  Kindler,  the  first  'cellist  of 
the  Philadelphia  Orchestra.  It  is  a  masterpiece.  But 
the  concert  was  too  long;  there  were  colour  and  sentiment 
that  cloyed,  and  the  beat  of  the  composer-conductor 
was  not  propulsive.  With  Leopold  Stokowski  things 
would  have  gone  at  a  brisker  tempo  and  would  have  been 
charged  with  more  vitality.  As  the  final  note  was  sounded 
a  well-known  wit  and  jurist,  a  Hebrew — if  I  say  more, 
Philadelphia  will  surely  recognise  the  man — passed  into 


1 72  STEEPLEJACK 

the  lobby  of  the  Academy  of  Music.  He  sighed.  He 
said,  with  the  self-mocking  irony  of  his  race:  "Beautiful 
music,  but  another  afternoon  like  this  and  I'll  turn  anti- 
Semite!"  Selah! 


XV 
THE  GIRLS 

Race  or  religion  never  troubled  me.  Music  was  be 
come  my  sole  passion.  I  even  ceased  to  envy  Heide 
Norris  his  tailor,  Williams  Carter  his  good  looks.  I  fre 
quented  places  where  musicians  gathered,  much  to  my 
mother's  disdain.  Not  that  I  was  dissipated.  I  had  to 
sow  my  wild-oats  after  my  own  fashion.  My  liquid 
measure,  as  they  say  at  the  grocer's,  was  the  envy  of  the 
gaugers.  My  father,  who  refused  to  see  me  in  any  but 
a  humorous  light,  had  called  me  "hollow-legs,"  changed 
that  title  for  "copper-lined."  He  classed  me  as  a  human 
armoured  tank.  It  was  not  flattering  to  a  young  man 
with  a  thirst  for  the  infinite.  I  was  always  thirsty,  and 
moistened  my  clay  and  my  wits  with  equal  facility.  I 
asked  him  whether  whisky  wasn't  more  harmful  than 
beer.  His  reply  was  prompt:  "Beer  is  bellywash" 
dear  old  Kensington  phrase—  "and  in  my  day  gentlemen 
didn't  drink  whisky,  they  drank  brandy."  I  shuddered. 
It  was  true.  During  the  first  half  of  the  last  century, 
cognac  was  preferred  to  corn-whisky  by  people  of  taste. 
But  to  my  way  of  thinking  both  are  poisonous. 

I  have  mentioned  Williams  Carter  as  one  of  the  beaux; 
I  must  not  forget  those  other  beauty-men,  Dr.  John  Taylor 
or  Dr.  Thomas  H.  Fenton;  Greek  of  profile  and  admired 
of  the  belles  who  promenaded  Spruce  and  Walnut  Streets. 
Ernest  Law  was  considered  by  feminine  judges  to  be  a 
model  of  manly  form,  and  later  Barclay  Warburton 

173 


i74  STEEPLEJACK 

entered  the  "Greek  God"  class.  And  there  were  "  danc 
ing"  Willie  White,  Charlie  Sloan,  and  how  many  Binneys 
and  Biddies !  The  girls !  I  was  an  onlooker  with  an 
eye  on  the  Burton  girls,  Sallie  and  Carrie,  the  Junoesque 
Bessie  Tunison,  and  the  much-admired  Eloise  Conover, 
or  the  handsome  Burrows  sisters,  our  cousins.  The 
Carter  girls  were  distinguished-looking  in  the  indolent 
Italian  style,  and  there  was  the  gypsy  beauty,  Lizzie 
Evans,  on  Walnut  Street  below  Tenth;  and  a  slender 
girl  with  large  unfathomable  eyes  ("incessant  eyes,"  as 
poet  Vance  Thompson  calls  them),  hair  that  Titian  would 
have  gloated  over,  and  features  that  may  be  seen  in  a 
Greek  medallion.  I  only  remember  that  her  last  name  was 
English,  and  that  I  worshipped  her  from  afar;  the  desire 
of  the  stone  for  the  star.  (If  I  could  remember  her  first 
name  I  might  give  vent  to  another  of  my  emotional 
shrieks:  Bertha!  Elaine!  Molly  Bawn !  and  the  rest.) 
La  crise  juponniere  had  definitely  declared  itself.  Music 
was  but  an  accomplice  of  the  petticoats,  and  during  my 
seventeenth  year — not  sweet  but  simply  seventeen — the 
female  planet  arose  on  the  rim  of  my  soul  and  shone 
serenely  into  my  agitated  consciousness.  Calf-love  had 
begun  its  silly  sway. 

I  have  said  that  love  is  lucid  folly,  but  it  is  fascinating 
folly  in  the  first  quarter  of  its  honey  noon.  And  no 
matter  the  fun  poked  at  the  awkward  age  there  is  no 
denying  the  single-heartedness  of  a  boy's  first  love.  A 
girl  is  a  madonna  in  his  eyes.  A  jest  made  about  her 
turns  his  little  sky  black.  Nor  does  it  have  to  be  a  girl; 
a  married  woman  will  do;  married  women  are  usually 
the  target  for  boyish  adoration.  I  remember  one  wedded 
lady  whom  I  had  honoured  with  my  timid  attentions  (I 
could  never  follow  Stendhal's  advice,  a  trooper's  motto, 


THE  GIRLS  175 


and  make  love  to  every  woman  I  happened  to  find  alone). 
She  was  mysterious — Ah !  how  youth  enjoys  mystery— 
and  she  impressed  me  as  having  married  her  husband  as 
an  accomplice  in  some  dark  enterprise.  Perhaps  she 
had.  He  was  far  from  being  the  hateful  husband  brute 
of  fiction.  To  me  he  was  quite  affable,  till  one  after 
noon,  as  we  drank  tea  I  heard  him  ask  the  housemaid  if 
"that  lightning-bug"  was  with  his  wife.  I  never  went 
back  to  her.  I  don't  mind  abuse,  but  the  implication 
of  the  lantern  and  its  location — you  have  studied  en 
tomology ! — was  too  much.  But  there  were  plenty  of 
consolations:  Bessie  and  Sallie  and  Adele,  sweetest  of 
girls,  who  taught  me  how  to  walk,  talk,  but  not  to  dance. 
I  was  born  with  a  Quaker  foot.  I  often  wonder  what 
girls  see  in  hobbledehoys.  They  are,  I  know,  a  continual 
source  of  amusement.  I  was.  My  dancing  gave  great 
pleasure  to  the  children;  but  as  I  could  tinkle  pretty 
tunes  for  others  to  foot  the  mazy  dance  I  was  occasionally 
rewarded  with  a  bright  look.  Kissing  was  never  at 
tempted.  I  contend  that  a  boy's  mind  at  a  certain  period 
is  as  pure  as  a  girl's.  (A  pure  girl,  of  course.)  Youth  is 
pure  just  because  it  is  youth,  says  Dostoievsky.  Vague 
desires  assail  him,  at  which  he  blushes,  but  for  unadul 
terated  chivalry,  give  me  the  average  lad  who  blushes 
when  his  mother  tells  him  "Mamie  is  coming  over  to-night, 
Jack,  hurry,  wash  your  face  and  don't  forget  to  change 
your  collar."  Forget  to  change  his  collar !  Wash  his 
face,  forsooth !  With  a  Byronic  scowl,  which  is  not 
missed  by  his  sympathetic  mother — and  sneered  at  by 
his  cynical  aunt — he  stalks  out  of  the  room,  and  for  a 
full  hour  faces  his  glass,  alternately  admiring  and  dis 
trusting  his  pulchritude.  The  boy  who  doesn't  make  an 
ass  of  himself  over  a  girl  is  apt  to  miss  out  later  in  his 


176  STEEPLEJACK 

manhood.     It  meant  something,  the  toga  virilis  of  the 
Romans;  at  once  a  symbol  of  virility  and  sex-initiation. 

But  no  love  is  comparable  to  the  first  love  of  a  boy 
for  his  mother.  It  is  the  greatest  romance  in  the  world. 
It  comes  earlier  with  some  lads  than  others,  and  it  lasts 
till  his  death.  My  affection  took  a  peculiar  turn.  I 
realised  that  the  end  of  mankind  was  death.  We  are 
all  condemned,  as  Victor  Hugo  said ;  but  not  our  mothers. 
I  was  sure  that  my  mother  would  never  die.  She  was 
something  so  exquisite  that  she  was  deathless,  and  like 
the  child  in  Wordsworth's  poem,  I  could  have  obstinately 
repeated  "We  are  seven,"  when  I  argued  the  matter 
with  boys  of  my  age.  Their  mothers  might  die,  mine 
never.  The  illusion  long  endured.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  afternoon  that  I  climbed  to  the  base  of  the  dome  of 
the  Cathedral  on  Logan  Square.  From  a  window  I  saw 
my  mother's  terrified  face,  as  I  triumphantly  waved  a 
handkerchief.  I  felt  like  Ibsen's  Master  Builder  in  the 
tragic  play.  I  was  true  Steeplejack.  In  the  mean 
time  my  brother,  John,  without  any  fuss  or  feathers, 
calmly  ascended  the  dome  by  a  small  ladder,  invisible 
from  the  street,  to  the  gilded  globe  and  cross  at  the  very 
top.  He  had  a  contract  to  fresco  the  church  and  re- 
gild  the  cross.  It  was  all  in  the  day's  work  for  him,  to 
me  a  victory;  but  when  I  descended  and  realised  what 
a  shock  I  had  inflicted  on  the  loving  woman  my  conceit 
was  dampened  for  the  nonce.  Another  picture.  Evening 
in  the  nuns'  flower  garden  at  Emmitsburg,  Maryland. 
"L'heure  exquise,"  as  the  poet  so  charmingly  phrases  it. 
In  the  soft  slanting  light  of  a  westering  sun,  I  see  my 
mother  slowly  walking  under  a  trellised  path,  her  rosary 
in  her  hand,  on  her  head  a  mantilla  that  transformed  her 
into  a  Spanish  dame  of  high  degree.  I  was  not  more  than 


THE  GIRLS  177 


eight  or  nine  years  old,  but  it  was  the  first  time  that  I 
consciously  realised  that  she  was  my  mother.  She  was 
the  most  beautiful  creature  on  earth.  The  gentle  nuns 
who  moved  along  this  enchanted  garden  were  only 
phantoms.  The  one  great  fact  was  my  mother  and  her 
calm  intellectual  features.  It  is  the  most  vivid  memory 
I  have  of  her.  With  difficulty  I  summon  up  to  my  recol 
lection  meeting  there  the  poet,  George  Miles,  and  hear 
ing  him  discourse  on  his  Pontius  Pilate,  his  Truce  of 
God,  and  of  his  theory  as  to  the  cause  of  Hamlet's  ir 
resolution.  This  theory  he  afterwards  published,  and 
the  essay  contains  some  plausible  arguments;  among 
the  rest,  that  Hamlet,  being  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  a 
fervent  believer,  despite  his  surface  scepticism,  could 
not  kill  the  King  unshriven  without  doing  violence  to 
his  conscience.  As  Hamletic  theories  go  it  is  worth 
while. 

I  must  add  that  while  we  had  Jewish  friends,  I  did 
not  fail  to  associate  with  boys  and  girls  of  our  own 
race  and  religion;  the  Barrys,  the  Raleighs,  the  SuIIivans, 
Dohans,  Wilcoxes,  McGIenseys,  Doughertys,  and  other 
Americans  of  Irish  stock.  Will  Sullivan,  the  brother  of 
John  and  James,  was  one  of  the  handsomest  young  men 
of  our  set  and  possessed  a  nature  transparent  and  lova 
ble.  Yet,  when  it  came  to  spooning,  I  sought  pasture 
elsewhere  than  among  our  crowd.  My  first  grand  passion 
was  a  cousin,  but  she  jilted  me  for  my  younger  brother. 
Then  a  certain  Annie  and  a  Theresa  loomed  large.  Annie 
was  short,  plump,  materialistic;  Theresa  wore  long  curls, 
had  large  eyes,  an  empty  gaze,  and  a  saccharine  smile;  in 
short,  she  was  a  girl  of  the  sort  that  girls  detest. 
Sly,  was  the  epithet  applied  to  her  by  Annie.  Neither 


i78  STEEPLEJACK 

one  cared  a  rap  for  me,  but  each  was  determined  to  beat 
the  other.  I  played  a  fatuous  Paris  to  their  rivalry,  but 
when  I  attempted  to  award  the  golden  apple — meaning 
myself — they  at  once  became  close  friends  and  gave  me 
the  cold  shoulder.  For  weeks  I  ruminated,  not  without 
bitterness,  on  feminine  treachery,  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  consult  my  mother.  She  bade  me  not  put  my 
trust  in  princes,  and  quoted  Wolsey's  speech:  "If  I  had 
served  my  God,"  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  superfluous. 
It  is  Lincoln  who  is  credited  with  the  wise  and  witty 
axiom:  "You  can  fool  all  of  the  people  some  of  the  time, 
and  some  of  the  people  all  of  the  time,  but  you  can't  fool 
all  the  people  all  the  time."  He  might  have  added:  But 
you  can  fool  yourself  every  time.  Self-illusion  is  the 
staff  of  life,  the  bread  of  egotism.  I  am  not  precisely  a 
determinist,  yet  I  believe  our  characters  are  immutable. 
I  have  always  fooled  myself,  and  successfully,  up  to  a 
given  point,  then  the  disillusionment  is  accepted  as  a 
necessity.  It  had  to  come,  I  would  say,  seeking  con 
solation  in  the  shabby  snare  of  fatalism.  The  petticoat 
mirage  found  me  easiest  of  victims.  It  was  years  later 
I  discovered  that  in  the  land  of  tone  may  be  found  the 
Elysian  Fields.  My  mother's  delicate  warning  fell  on  deaf 
ears,  and  when  my  father  mocked  me  "beware  of  the 
girls!"  I  retorted  with  the  elder  Weller's  advice  to  his 
son  "beware  of  the  vidders  Samivel!"  I  knew  it  all 
before  I  was  out  of  my  teens.  The  omniscience  of  youth 
is  both  the  pride  and  despair  of  parents.  My  craze 
for  the  girls  was  no  doubt  an  illustration  of  Henry 
James's  "manners  observable  in  the  most  mimetic  depart 
ment  of  any  great  menagerie."  But  boys  weren't  mon 
keys  nor  girls  parrots  then,  as  they  seem  when  life  sets 
such  things  in  truer  perspective. 


THE  GIRLS  179 


I  have  never  suffered  from  the  Time  illusion.  The 
past  or  future  did  not  exist.  It  seldom  does  for  the 
young.  I  have  always  had  the  delusion  of  free-will. 
There  is  only  the  present.  That  long  shining  corridor  of 
Time  did  not  invite  me  to  traverse  its  eternal  leagues. 
Carpe  diem !  When  I  read  in  Henri  Bergson's  phil 
osophy — thrice-subtle  French  Jew — that  "Time  is  both 
tough  and  resistant,"  I  rejected  the  idea,  fair  as  it  is  to  the 
abused  concept  Time,  always  playing  a  minor  role  when 
in  company  with  its  brother,  Space.  Not  even  meta 
physical  Time  is  resistant.  I  can't  divest  my  conscious 
ness  of  the  notion,  naturally  an  empirical  one,  that  Time 
is  the  glittering  crest  of  a  moment,  not  one  of  a  series  of 
beads  strung  out  through  eternity.  Eternity  is  Now. 
Live  in  the  present — which  passes  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
I  suspect  that  Walter  Pater  and  his  famous  conclusion 
to  the  Studies  in  the  Renaissance  had  much  to  do  with 
my  crystallisation  of  this  worship  of  the  present.  My 
present  didn't  mean  the  actual;  far  from  it.  A  cuckoo- 
cloudland  was  for  me  the  present.  I  had  neither  hind 
sight  nor  foresight.  With  David  Thoreau  I  could  have 
cried:  "Thank  God,  they  can't  cut  down  the  clouds," 
possibly  substituting  "girls"  for  clouds.  And  petti 
coats  stray  in  where  fools  fear  to  enter.  Girls  are  ever 
wise;  so  they  appeared  to  me.  At  each  hour  of  the  day 
I  said,  with  Faust:  "Stay,  thou  art  so  fair!"  And  they 
stayed,  that's  the  funny  part  of  it.  They  jeered  at  me, 
but  they  remained  companions.  I  recall  a  dark-skinned, 
black-haired  girl  who  was  nicknamed  Portuguese  Annie. 
She  was  a  nicely  behaved  miss  of  seventeen  and  one  of 
those  apathetic  flirts.  She  never  regarded  you  except 
from  a  great  height,  unless  another  girl  became  too 
friendly,  then,  hawk-like  she  would  swoop  down  on  her 


i8o  STEEPLEJACK 

innocent  prey — meaning  my  Iamb-like  self — and  carry 
him  away  to  her  fastness,  there  to  be  dropped  into  the 
next  nest  of  her  indifference.  She  piqued,  did  Portuguese 
Annie — why  Portuguese,  I  never  found  out;  perhaps  be 
cause  she  was  Irish.  I  met  her  of  rainy  nights  in  Fair- 
mount  Park.  We  went  around  the  Reservoir.  At  times 
we  sat  on  wet  benches,  an  umbrella  lifted,  her  cloak 
about  us.  When  the  guardian  of  public  morals  shooed 
us  away  we  sought  another  bench,  and  potential  pneu 
monia.  What  was  our  conversation?  I've  forgotten. 
Probably  chaste  and  silly.  One  night  as  we  walked 
about  Logan  Square,  a  lame  man  hobbled  in  front  of  us, 
then  he  limped  to  our  rear.  A  spy  ?  A  relative !  I 
warned  Annie.  She  didn't  recognise  him  and  he  so 
manoeuvred  that  I  couldn't.  At  the  advanced  hour  of 
nine  we  separated — and  forever.  The  reason  I  never 
saw  her  again  was  a  simple  one.  That  lame  man  was 
my  elder  brother  playing  detective.  At  home  he  warned 
me  that  I  was  a  sentimental  ass.  I  openly  admitted  it. 
There  was  other  balm  in  Gilead.  The  charms  of  Portu 
guese  Annie  had  begun  to  pall.  The  Eternal  Feminine 
led  me  upward  and  on. 

Not  far  from  Logan  Square  there  was  a  mysterious 
mansion  occupied  by  two  men,  possibly  brothers,  though 
they  did  not  betray  any  family  resemblance,  and  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  girls  on  our  perambulating  bone-yard 
of  a  planet.  The  entire  neighbourhood  of  boys  said  she 
was  peerless  and  I  soon  chimed  in.  Through  the  inter 
mediary  of  her  brother — he  turned  up  from  somewhere — 
we  were  introduced,  and  I  called  at  discreet  intervals — 
every  afternoon  between  five  and  six.  They  were  for 
eigners,  Swiss,  I  think,  and  their  drawing-room  was 
decorum  personified.  I  can't  tell  how  it  was  managed, 


THE  GIRLS  181 


but  each  boy  had  his  solo,  or  rather  duo,  interview  with 
the  lovely  Clarisse.  I  called  her  Monna  Lisa  because 
of  her  delicate  hands  and  slow,  cold  gaze.  She  could  out- 
stare  a  wooden  Indian  or  a  brass  monkey,  and  when  she 
condescended  to  drop  her  disdainful  eyelids,  we  shivered 
in  ecstasy.  We  adored  her,  and  quarrelled  over  her  like 
a  pack  of  hungry  hounds  about  a  live  goose.  Our  leisure 
was  spent  in  discussing  her  mysterious  family.  No  one 
knew  them,  knew  their  business,  except  that  at  five 
o'clock  their  solemn  hospitality  was  bestowed  upon  the 
elect.  We,  the  ganders,  were  the  elect.  Hot  love  was 
made  to  this  madonna.  We  tried  to  arrange  meetings 
outside.  In  vain.  I  never  saw  such  admirable  team 
work.  We  were  brethren  united  in  a  noble  cause — to 
carry  off  Clarisse  from  her  home  and  marry  her,  not  all 
of  us,  only  myself — and  every  chap  said  the  same.  Boys 
have  monstrous  fancies.  We  believed  that  girl  perse 
cuted  by  her  loving  father  and  uncle,  though  she  was 
serenely  happy.  We  made  up  to  her  gawky  brother, 
bribing  him  with  cigarettes,  fondly  hoping  for  a  gleam  of 
light  on  the  dark  enigma  of  the  household. 

He  never  vouchsafed  us  this  illuminating  ray  of  hope. 
The  plot  thickened.  Other  boys  came  into  the  net. 
Every  now  and  then  we  were  not  admitted,  though  we 
saw  our  nut-brown  maid  in  the  bay-window  on  the  second 
floor,  presumably  leading  on  another  brave  knight  to 
destruction.  We  descended  so  low  in  the  moral  scale 
as  to  spy  upon  the  house  after  dark.  By  climbing  the  wall 
of  the  Quaker  graveyard  opposite,  we  could,  at  the  risk 
of  our  unworthy  necks,  peer  into  the  lighted  rooms. 
We  never  saw  a  thing;  the  curtains  were  always  drawn. 
Time  passed.  Clarisse  remained  the  Marble  Heart  of  our 
despairing  fancy.  Suddenly  her  family  moved.  A  sign 


1 82  STEEPLEJACK 


"to  let"  froze  our  overheated  blood.  Where  did  they 
go,  this  charming,  mysterious  family?  Alas  !  no  one  ever 
discovered.  But  we  discovered  ourselves,  when,  one 
evening  in  conclave  over  pipes  and  gingerpop,  we  frankly 
bared  our  hearts.  Every  man  Jack  present  had  proposed 
marriage  to  Clarisse  (not  one  was  more  than  eighteen), 
and  had  been  accepted.  At  least  ten  of  us  admitted  the 
soft  impeachment.  We  reviled  ourselves  at  the  outlay 
in  engagement  rings.  Each  chap  outdid  the  other  in 
his  effort  to  make  himself  the  king-pin  of  ridicule.  I 
fear  there  were  unshed  drops  in  our  tear-ducts,  we  were 
so  desperately  gay.  When  I  say  that  we  all  popped  the 
question,  I  must  omit  George  Wickersham,  who  had  re 
mained  a  critical  onlooker.  "If  I  ever  marry,"  he  as 
sured  us,  "I  wish  at  least  to  know  the  lady's  last  name  !" 
George  didn't  approve  of  matrimony  in  the  dark.  I 
fancy  the  solution  of  the  "mystery"  was  only  a  widower, 
endeavouring  to  marry  his  daughter  to  the  best  advan 
tage. 

That  chapter  closed  I  began  another  one — but  stay ! 
These  memoirs  are  not  intended  to  describe  my  senti 
mental  education.  Any  man  could  write  a  book  of  many 
pages  and  call  it  My  Love-Life  (or  Vita  Sexualis,  as  the 
psychiatric  jargon  goes).  It  would  sell  like  hot  cakes 
on  a  wintry  night.  Consider  George  Moore's  Memoirs 
of  My  Dead  Life — the  unexpurgated  English  edition ! 
When  I  anxiously  consulted  my  editor  as  to  the  inclusion 
of  the  love  element,  without  which  existence  is  like  an 
addled  egg,  he  tersely  replied:  "Be  interesting,  and  if 
you  can't  be  interesting,  be  careful!"  But  then  one 
can't  be  careful  and  interesting  at  the  same  time.  Many 
a  woman  has  come  to  shipwreck  in  attempting  that  im- 


THE  GIRLS  183 


possible  task.  You  can't  have  your  cake  and  swallow 
it.  So  I  shall  desist  from  further  recital  of  my  salad 
loves,  except  to  add  that  on  the  boards  I  had  three  pas 
sions:  Adelaide  Neilson,  Mary  Scott-Siddons  and  Tere- 
sita  Carreno,  and,  as  these  three  women  ranked  as  the 
most  beautiful  of  their  day,  I  had  half  the  town  assisting 
me  in  my  worship.  Carreno,  in  particular,  with  her 
exotic  colouring,  brilliant  eyes,  and  still  more  brilliant 
piano-playing,  was  like  a  visitor  from  another  star. 
One  night  at  a  Gaertner  concert  she  wore  a  scarlet  dress, 
and  a  rose  coquettishly  placed  in  her  raven-black  hair 
drove  the  blood  from  my  heart  (probably  pumped  it 
too  fast).  I  shall  always  remember  this  thrice-charming 
— and  thrice-married — woman  and  great  artiste,  in  the 
scarlet  mists  of  my  memory.  When  I  told  her  later  of 
my  folly  she  nai'vely  answered:  "But  you  foolish  boy, 
why  didn't  you  send  me  a  bouquet  of  red  roses,  then  I 
should  have  known  that  you  admired  me."  The  worst 
trick  that  fate  plays  on  us  is  to  let  us  know  too  late 
how  near  we  grazed  happiness. 


XVI 
MUSIC-MADNESS 

Every  girl  has  her  day.  I  couldn't  forever  feed  on 
sweetmeats.  My  musical  studies  were  satisfactorily 
progressing.  I  knew  because  I  never  opened  a  law  book 
and  also  because  of  my  debut  as  a  pianist  in  company 
with  my  chum,  Franz  Schubert.  Together  we  played 
Grieg's  first  Sonata  for  violin  and  piano  (in  F,  opus  8)  and 
a  Sonata  by  Ries.  Franz  played  the  slow  movement  from 
the  Mendelssohn  Concerto  and  Wieniawski's  "Legende," 
and  most  musically.  He  was  a  skilled  fresco-painter, 
but  I  think  he  should  have  stuck  to  music.  I  followed 
with  the  "Loreley"  by  Seeling,  and  some  Schubert  pieces. 
As  we  were  not  paid  for  our  services,  it  being  a  benefit 
concert — on  Franklin  Street  in  a  small  hall  somewhere 
near  Poplar  or  Parrish  Streets — we  were  warmly  ap 
plauded.  There  were  no  press-notices,  luckily  enough. 
It  was  my  first,  and  with  a  solitary  appearance  in  Paris, 
my  last  appearance  in  public  as  a  pianist.  The  world  of 
music  has  lost  nothing  through  my  resolve  not  to  wear 
my  musical  motley  on  the  concert  platform.  But  I  have 
worn  it  in  print  too  often.  We  must,  all  of  us,  eat  our 
peck  of  dirt.  However,  Schubert  and  I  continued  to 
play  music  in  private.  At  the  Academy  our  seats  were 
in  the  top  gallery,  better  known  as  the  amphitheatre 
(entrance,  25  cents).  When  last  season  I  saw  the  line 
stretched  along  Locust  Street  patiently  waiting  for  the 
doors  to  open,  and  then  a  wild  rushing  up-stairs  to  be 
rewarded  by  the  tones  of  Jascha  Heifetz's  magic  fiddle, 
it  was  easy  for  me  to  forget  the  forty  odd  years  when  we 

184 


MUSIC-MADNESS  185 

also  stood  there,  good  or  bad  weather,  hoping  to  get  a 
front-row  seat,  or  when  Theodore  Thomas  conducted  his 
wonderful  orchestra.  With  Alfredo  Barili  I  heard  Joseffy 
play,  and  Theodore  Ritter — with  all  three  I  studied  later. 
My  first  visit  to  the  Academy  began  when  the  Majiltons, 
or  was  it  the  Hanlon-Lees,  acrobats  extraordinary  ?  Little 
America,  a  Japanese  child,  astonished  with  his  aerial 
flights.  Ole  Bull,  Vieuxtemps,  Sivori  played  their  fiddles; 
but  it  was  Thomas  that  I  best  loved.  The  orchestra, 
the  synthesis  of  instruments,  cured  me  of  my  operatic 
mania.  The  symphony,  with  its  reasoned  narrative  in 
tone,  is  the  epitome  of  music. 

The  Mercantile  Library,  on  Tenth  Street,  where  it  is 
to-day,  had  me  as  a  daily  visitor.  It  was  there  I  began 
my  browsing  in  many  fields.  Like  an  animal  I  instinc 
tively  sought  the  food  my  system  demanded.  I  was  like 
a  horse  let  out  to  graze.  I  must  have  had  an  appalling 
appetite  for  printed  matter.  I  would,  in  the  absence  of 
an  English  book,  read  any  foreign  language,  although 
I  didn't  understand  it.  There  was  something  friendly 
and  inviting  in  strange  letters.  Hebrew  intrigued  my 
fancy.  To-day  I  can  make  out  the  meaning  of  headlines 
in  a  Yiddish  newspaper,  thanks  to  that  one-eyed  ex- 
rabbi's  lessons.  I  had  the  good  luck  to  read  the  "new" 
English  literature  of  the  seventies  and  eighties.  The 
poets  enthralled  me.  Swinburne,  Dante  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti,  William  Morris,  Matthew  Arnold,  Clough,  Patmore, 
and  the  Alfred  Tennyson  of  that  period,  as  well  as  George 
Meredith  as  poet,  and  a  host  of  minor  singers  such  as 
Gosse — his  "On  Viol  and  Flute" — Arthur  O'Shaugnessy, 
Austin  Dobson — delightful  reading — and  even  the  ex 
travagant  Theophile  Marzials.  The  essayists,  Arnold, 
Pater,  George  Saintsbury — who  first  wrote  of  Baude- 


1 86  STEEPLEJACK 


laire — attracted  me.  But  the  pre-Raphaelitic  movement 
left  me  indifferent,  especially  the  painters.  I  had  suffi 
cient  art  training  to  recognise  the  gimcrack  mysticism, 
preciosity  and  woful  lack  of  expert  brushwork  in  the 
productions  of  the  Brotherhood.  Think  of  Woolner  as  a 
sculptor!  A  mediocre  modeller  who  wrote  "occasional" 
verse.  Rossetti  is  a  musical  poet;  as  a  picture-maker  he 
is  an  imitator;  the  hand  is  his,  but  the  voice  is  the  voice 
of  the  Italian  Primitives.  A  pretty  colour  scheme,  a 
sentimental  attitude  towards  mediaeval  religious  faith, 
and  drawing  that  is  "papery."  His  sonnets  will  be  read 
when  his  painting  is  forgotten.  A  visit  to  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery  is  a  disillusion.  Watts  is  another  mediocrity 
despite  his  poetry.  His  paint  is  "woolly,"  his  design 
obviously  "eclectic,"  that  is,  not  original.  Edward 
Burne-Jones  has  a  thin  vein  of  poetry,  but  his  wan  alle 
gories  seen  in  the  cruel  light  of  this  century  are  feeble 
dreams.  I  like  better  the  honest  but  uninspired  realism 
of  Ford  Madox-Brown.  Albert  Moore  is  decorative, 
Leighton  pasticcio,  and  Holman  Hunt  with  his  "Light 
of  the  World,"  is  a  sacred  bore.  The  one  strong  man, 
John  Millais,  didn't  long  remain  in  the  movement.  His 
artistic  lungs  were  too  big  to  respire  in  that  morbid 
marsh  air  of  mysticism  and  faded  eroticism.  I  had  begun 
to  enjoy  the  Barbizons,  but  the  French  Impressionists 
I  knew  little  about,  yet  there  they  were,  only  a  few  miles 
across  the  Channel  bringing  the  pure  light  of  heaven  into 
the  dingy,  musty  atmosphere  of  Academic  art;  while 
the  pre-Raphaelites,  their  faces  turned  towards  the 
fifteenth  century,  were  indulging  in  various  insincere 
poses  and  hysterical  contortions,  thus  thinking  to  set 
back  the  implacable  clock  of  time.  London  was  then 
artistically  as  far  from  Paris  as  if  it  were  Pekin. 


MUSIC-MADNESS  187 

To  catch  the  first  glow  of  a  rising  sun  is  a  pleasant 
experience.  Swinburne  was  new,  Wagner  was  new, 
Manet,  Monet,  and  Rodin  were  new.  I  was  happy  in 
being  born  at  such  cross-roads  of  art.  I  watched  all 
novel  manifestations  across  the  water.  George  Eliot 
had  just  published  Daniel  Deronda,  and  while  the  waning 
of  her  popularity  dated  from  that  fiction,  over  here  she 
was  at  her  apogee.  I  admired  her,  still  admire  her,  but 
wouldn't  give  up  Charlotte  Bronte  or  Jane  Austen  for 
her.  Indeed,  I  would  rather  read  the  critical  writings 
of  her  companion,  George  Henry  Lewes,  with  his  lively 
Jewish  imagination,  capital  memory,  and  splendid  work 
manship.  His  Life  of  Goethe,  despite  some  omissions, 
is  better  than  the  pretentious  three-volume  biography 
of  Bielochowsky,  and  where  is  there  a  more  succinct 
summing  up  of  the  historical  aspects  of  philosophy  than 
Lewes  furnished  us.  His  coda,  a  veritable  challenge  to 
idealism  and  its  exponents,  still  remains  unanswerable. 
On  the  last  page  (789)  of  The  Biographical  History  of 
Philosophy,  he  asks:  "Have  we  any  ideas  independent 
of  experience?"  The  answer  is  always  a  negative. 
The  latest  champion  of  idealistic  absolutism — despite 
William  James  and  his  Pluralism,  it  is  idealism — Henri 
Bergson  may  wriggle  as  metaphysically  as  he  pleases — 
and  as  a  phrase-maker  he  is  an  artist,  but  he  can't  evade 
that  question  of  George  Henry  Lewes  without  imperilling 
his  shaky  lath,  plaster,  and  cobweb  edifice.  The  essay 
by  Lewes  on  Actors  and  Acting  is  a  classic.  Never 
theless,  George  Eliot  had  a  touch  of  genius  and  her  mate 
had  not.  He  was  supremely  clever,  nothing  more. 

The  Mercantile  Library  was  a  trysting  spot  for  enam 
oured  youth.  There  I  saw  the  girl  with  the  medallion 


1 88  STEEPLEJACK 

features  and  Titian  hair;  there  we  had  encounters  with 
the  old  Cerberus,  Donigan,  who  only  did  his  duty  as  a 
doorkeeper  in  keeping  the  lobbies  clear  and  suppressing 
laughter.  We  thought  otherwise.  We  loved  to  romp, 
raise  a  row,  and  drop  books.  I  can  evoke  the  absorbed 
expression  of  Mr.  Edmands,  the  librarian,  which  would 
modulate  into  pained  astonishment  when  our  gang  talked 
too  loudly  in  the  reading-room.  After  we  were  ejected, 
which  occurred  at  least  once  a  month,  we  would  shake 
our  fists  at  Donigan,  and  go  across  the  street  to  Dooner's, 
there  to  swagger  before  the  bar  and  sip  soda-cocktails, 
as  harmless  as  buttermilk.  What  men  around  town  we 
were !  Popular  concerts  conducted  by  Sentz,  or  Mark 
Hassler,  or  Wolsieffer  always  saw  us.  I  made  the  ac 
quaintance,  through  a  school  companion,  young  Shaw, 
of  his  brother-in-law,  Siegfried  Behrens,  an  admirable 
conductor  of  opera,  as  well  as  a  scholarly  musician.  I 
think  the  Shaws  lived  on  Locust  Street.  A  Sunday 
morning  treat  was  to  go  in  company  with  my  father  to 
High  Mass  at  St.  Augustine's  Church,  to  the  choir,  there 
to  hear  Henry  Thunder,  Sr.,  play  the  organ  of  which  he 
was  a  master.  His  pedalling  made  me  forget  the  divine 
service.  There  was  a  bass  in  the  choir  named  Winter- 
bottom,  a  friend  of  my  father's,  who  always  saluted  him 
as  Summertop.  The  association  of  Thunder  and  Winter- 
bottom  set  me  to  speculation.  With  Laurence  Sterne's 
Slawkenbergius  I  believed  in  the  fitness  of  names.  I 
have  mentioned  Alfredo  Barili.  He  taught  me.  He  was 
a  finished  pianist  of  the  French  school.  When  he  first 
played  Chopin's  B  minor  Scherzo  for  me,  it  acted  like 
catnip  on  a  feline.  I  rolled  over  the  floor.  The  music 
made  my  nerves  naked.  I  play  the  tragic,  morbid  com 
position  now — yet  can  never  rid  myself  of  the  initial 


MUSIC-MADNESS  189 

impression.  Later  S.  L.  Hermann  and  Anthony  Stanko- 
witch  guided  my  musical  studies.  What  these  three 
young  men  thought  of  me  I  never  knew,  but  I  do  know 
that  they  were  exceedingly  forbearing.  The  sad  sequel 
is  that  with  all  my  striving  I  only  attained  mediocrity 
as  a  pianist.  Any  young  conservatory  miss  can  out 
play  me  in  glib  fingering.  Yet,  music  is  a  consolation, 
an  anodyne,  like  religion.  It  keeps  off  the  deadliest 
beast  that  lurks  in  the  jungle  of  life,  the  beast  I  stand 
most  in  fear  of — ennui.  Many  are  driven  to  monotonous 
labor  by  ennui.  Its  presence  is  a  pathological  symptom. 
If  this  be  true  then  all  animal  creation  from  man  to 
beetles,  is  sick  in  spirit.  I've  seen  dogs  yawn  from  bore 
dom;  yea,  even  the  flowers  droop  when  weary  of  life. 
Art  has  been  my  escape,  and  my  native  laziness  was 
surmounted  by  the  terror  bred  of  ennui.  Making  money, 
love,  playing  games,  are  but  so  many  forms  by  which 
to  escape  the  oppressive  monster,  and  also  to  create  the 
illusion  of  progress.  To  fill  in  the  seemingly  intermina 
ble  interval  from  womb  to  tomb,  man  invented  politics, 
money,  wine,  cards,  war,  love,  and  religion.  (Satan 
Mekatrig  is  personally  interested  in  several  of  these  in 
ventions.) 

A  certain  Christmas,  I've  forgotten  the  year,  I  was  con 
sidered,  by  such  inexpert  authority  as  my  parents,  to 
be  capable  of  handling  a  church  organ.  My  nervousness 
was  pooh-poohed  as  stage  fright.  Finally  I  ceded,  but 
only  after  severe  pressure.  Midnight  Mass  at  Christmas 
Eve  had  been  temporarily  abolished  by  Archbishop 
Wood;  a  Mass  with  music  at  6  A.  M.  taking  its  place. 
Without  a  day's  warning,  I  was  asked  to  "substitute" 
for  the  organist  at  the  church  near  Moyamensing  Prison. 
I  went  to  bed  early,  spent  a  sleepless  night,  anticipating 


1 90  STEEPLEJACK 

a  breakdown  at  the  organ,  and  of  being  chased  from  the 
choir.  Shivering,  I  arose  at  four  o'clock,  swallowed  a 
pot  of  coffee  to  keep  up  my  courage  (and  to  prevent  the 
heart  leaping  out  of  my  bosom)  and  proceeded  to  board 
a  Tenth  Street  horse-car.  It  took  about  an  hour  to 
reach  the  church — I  can't  recollect  its  name,  though  I 
shall  never  forget  its  interior — and  when  I  arrived  in  the 
choir  it  must  have  been  a  half-hour  too  soon.  The  place 
was  chilly.  I  "gloomed"  around,  tried  the  little  organ 
and  its  two  banks  of  keys,  and  was  wondering  what  Mass 
I  was  expected  to  play  without  rehearsal,  when  the 
soprano  appeared.  It  was  Madame  Sauvan,  a  friend  of 
my  mother's,  who  proved  my  saviour.  She  picked  out 
either  Concone's  or  Bordone's  Mass  (?) — very  easy  to 
read,  and  she  gave  me  a  welcome  hint  about  the  voice 
of  the  celebrant  priest,  who  sometimes  deviated  from 
pitch.  The  worshippers  straggled  in,  the  choir  arrived, 
the  Mass  began,  and  my  knees  as  well  as  my  teeth  started 
to  chatter.  (Didn't  you  ever  have  chattering  knees?) 
I  plunged  into  the  music  ahead  or  behind  the  singers. 
My  tempi  were  erratic.  Madame  Sauvan  beat  time  for 
me  and  steadied  my  nerves.  There  was  no  pause  for 
a  sermon  and  the  solemn  service  smoothly  progressed. 
I  had  to  accompany  the  reverend  Father.  In  the 
"Pater  Noster"  he  intoned  the  "Et  ne  nos  inducas 
in  tentationem"  a  half  tone  flat.  I  vainly  scrambled 
from  the  key  of  G  to  F  sharp.  There  followed  a  dis 
tinct  series  of  dissonances  that  would  have  made  Richard 
Strauss  or  Stravinsky  envious.  I  peeped  into  the  tell 
tale  mirror  hung  over  the  organ  manuals  which  enables  the 
organist  to  watch  the  movements  before  the  altar.  I  saw 
one  movement  and  I  grew  pale.  It  was  the  indignant 
side  glance  shot  at  me  by  the  priest.  He  blamed  me  for 


MUSIC-MADNESS  191 

his  singing  off-key !  If  he  had  shot  me  I  should  have 
died  with  a  martyr's  aureole  and  a  heavenly  smile  on  my 
lips.  Cold  as  was  the  morning,  I  sweated.  I  fled  after 
playing  the  "Adeste  Fidelis,"  so  disconsolate  was  I  over 
my  blundering.  It  is  the  prime  duty  of  an  organist 
never  to  allow  the  congregation  to  overhear  flat  singing 
on  the  part  of  the  clergy.  To  do  that  is  to  commit  the 
sin  against  the  holy  ghost  of  music.  Madame  Sauvan 
told  my  mother  some  weeks  later  that  I  did  as  well  as 
could  be  expected,  which  truly  feminine  expression  left 
me  more  dubious  than  ever  as  to  my  success.  When  I 
wrote  a  horrible  and  blasphemous  short  story — though 
I  still  can't  see  the  blasphemy — entitled,  Where  the  Black 
Mass  was  Heard  (and  translated  into  French  by  Remy 
de  Gourmont)  I  utilised  as  a  background  the  choir  of  this 
church;  also  the  crypt  of  St.  Joseph's  Church  in  Willing's 
Alley.  This  tale  was  not  admired  by  those  clergy  of 
the  diocese  who  read  it,  yet  in  it  I  only  affirmed  in  un 
mistakable  terms  what  is  preached  from  every  Roman 
Catholic  pulpit,  i.  e.,  the  existence  of  a  personal  devil, 
the  demon  of  mid-day  who  goes  abroad  like  a  lion  seek 
ing  whom  he  may  devour.  I  had  been  reading  too  much 
Huysmans  and  his  description  of  the  Black  Mass  in  that 
astounding  novel,  La-bas,  but  my  yarn — which  is  not  in 
cluded  in  my  Melomaniacs  or  Visionaries — is  individual 
and  devoid  of  the  erotic  element.  Remy  de  Gourmont 
wrote  me  a  letter  of  congratulation  when  the  story  ap 
peared  in  M*lle  New  York,  declaring  that  my  invention 
was  as  vivid  as  Huysmans.  The  mistake  I  made  was 
merely  a  matter  of  taste.  I  should  not  have  used  St. 
Joseph's  as  the  spot  where  my  particular  devil  showed 
himself,  horns,  hoofs,  and  hide,  although  he  hangs  around 
churches,  as  is  well  known  in  theological  circles. 


1 92  STEEPLEJACK 


I  have  dwelt  on  religious  matters  too  much,  but  only 
to  prove  that  my  vocation,  despite  my  pious  environ 
ment,  was  not  a  priestly  one.  I  often  follow  with  my 
eyes  some  young  priest  and  shudder  at  the  idea  that  I 
might  have  been  persuaded  into  taking  orders  and  with 
what  doleful  consequences !  There  but  for  the  grace  of 
God  go  I — John  Wesley's  words — I  say.  To  me  the 
most  melancholy  apparitions  in  this  vale  of  Armageddon 
are  a  disfrocked  priest,  an  ex-vice-president,  an  ex- 
dramatic  critic.  (There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  ex-music- 
critic;  a  music-critic  never  stops  criticising.  Even  on 
his  death-bed  he  would  criticise  the  tone-production  of 
GabriePs  last  trump.)  Religion  has  given  an  emotional 
colouring  to  my  modes  of  thought.  It  has  been  called 
a  crutch  for  lame  minds  by  Huxley;  it  is  really  a  spiritual 
anodyne.  Mankind  demands  some  superstition — to  give 
it  a  Voltaire's  name.  "Ecrasez  rinfame!"  he  wrote,  for 
getting  that  belief  in  the  impossible  is  an  organic  neces 
sity,  and  not  sacerdotal  dupery.  Without  vision  people 
perish.  Montaigne,  Anatole  France,  made  of  their 
scepticism  the  smiling  religion  which  their  souls  craved. 
We  all  worship  something;  usually  ourselves.  There  is 
a  wilderness  in  the  heart  of  every  human.  And  the 
arch-devil  ennui  hides  behind  the  trees  spying  his  chance. 
Mother  Church  knew  this  when  she  devised  her  elaborate 
ritual,  her  consoling  sacraments,  her  future  rewards  and 
punishments.  The  void  is  filled.  Man,  ever  credulous, 
spends  his  life  earning  a  living  and  dodging  the  devil. 
Eternal  activity  is  the  price  of  sleep.  I  am  chronicling 
all  the  small-beer  of  my  uneventful  life  because  I  am 
afraid  of  the  twilight  that  sets  in  during  the  lonesome 
latter  years.  The  personal  pronoun  which  I  am  forced 
to  use,  and  abuse,  but  serves  as  a  peg  upon  which  is 


MUSIC-MADNESS  193 

hung  the  loop  of  my  narrative.  I  am  not  a  grandfather, 
but  I  have  reached  the  age  of  dissent.  In  youth  we 
rebel,  in  old  age,  we  dissent.  Thackeray  wrote:  "Youth 
goes  to  balls,  old  men  to  dinners."  So  please  be  patient 
with  my  anecdotage.  Presently  we  shall  be  in  Paris. 


XVII 

JIM  THE  PENMAN 

Annie  Hampton  Brewster  wrote  the  book  that  set  me 
off  on  another  tangent  and  helped  to  decide  my  future 
occupations.  It  is  called  St.  Martin's  Summer,  and  was 
published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  Boston,  1866.  It  is  out 
of  print,  as  is  her  musical  novel  Compensation,  the  latter 
superior  to  the  Charles  Auchester  kind  of  musical  stories. 
Miss  Brewster  was  for  years  Paris  Correspondent  of  the 
Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin,  and  was  succeeded  by 
Lucy  Hamilton  Hooper.  She  went  to  Rome  and  wrote 
letters  to  the  same  newspaper  that  revealed  her  generous 
culture  and  critical  sensibility.  Writers  of  her  calibre 
were  as  rare  then  as  they  are  now.  As  Havelock  Ellis 
says:  "The  exquisite  things  of  life  are  to-day  as  rare  and 
precious  as  they  ever  were."  St.  Martin's  Summer  is  a 
book  composed  of  loosely-strung  chapters,  a  mere  thread 
of  a  story  connecting  them.  There  are  travel  pictures, 
criticisms  of  art,  literature  and  music,  keen  apergus,  and 
a  catholicity  in  taste  that  is  refreshing  in  this  age  of 
specialisation  and  Gradgrind  "efficiency/'  The  times 
were  more  spacious,  the  dilettante  was  still  in  exist 
ence — dead  as  the  dodo  bird  now — and  life  a  pleasanter 
affair.  To  be  sure,  there  were  wars  and  rumours  of  war, 
and  politics  and  Cad  Stanton,  Dr.  Mary  Walker,  and 
the  mysterious  case  of  Charlie  Ross.  There  were  also 
cultivated  men  and  women  who  saw  life  steadily  and  as 

a  whole.     Miss  Brewster  was  one  of  them.     A  convert 

194 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  195 

to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  her  tact  saved  her  from 
excess  in  zeal.  I  admit  she  was  occasionally  sentimental, 
and  that  her  judgments  were  not  always  sound;  but  she 
introduced  me  to  Stendhal,  and  to  a  group  of  writers, 
not  so  cynical  as  Stendhal,  to  whom  I  owe  much  grati 
tude,  Chateaubriand  among  others.  The  Centennial 
Exposition  and  the  Brewster  book  set  ringing  the  alarm 
bells  in  my  conscience.  Europe  was  bound  to  see  me 
soon. 

A  victim  to  suggestion — the  Higher  Snobbery,  I  fancy 
it  should  be  called — I  discovered  Walt  Whitman  after 
reading  the  admirable  essay  by  Moncure  D.  Conway — 
the  uncle  of  General  Peyton  March  on  the  distaff  side 
— in  The  Atlantic  (?),  and  as  I  followed  that  grand  old 
iconoclast  in  many  of  his  views,  I  became  a  Whitmaniac 
about  in  the  same  time  that  Swinburne,  William  Rossetti 
— the  brother  of  the  painter-poet — and  John  Addington 
Symonds  sang  the  praises  of  the  Camden  bard;  also  at 
the  same  time  that  William  Winter,  dramatic  critic  of 
the  New  York  Tribune,  and  poet,  the  "Weeping  Willie" 
of  Charlie  McCIellan,  attacked  Leaves  of  Grass. 
Walt  disposed  of  Winter  thus:  "Now,  there's  Willie 
Winter,  miserable  little  cuss."  Swinburne  had  penned 
his  dithyrambic  praise  of  Whitman  in  his  study  of 
"William  Blake"  and  compared  that  master  of  lyrics 
to  the  American  yawper.  A  poor  enough  comparison, 
for  in  Blake  there  is  lovely  music,  while  in  Whitman 
the  chaff  almost  smothers  the  wheat.  Possibly  the 
Prophetic  Books  of  Blake  and  their  windy  ramifications 
suggested  the  comparison;  certainly  Swinburne  was  un 
happy  in  that,  as  later  he  permitted  himself  to  scold 
Whitman  like  a  fishwife  (that  is,  the  fishwife  of  Daniel 
O'Connell).  He  said  Whitman  wrote  poetry  as  would 


196  STEEPLEJACK 

a  drunken  apple-woman.  (I  quote  from  memory.) 
Again  old  Walt  "called  the  turn."  As  reported  by  Hor 
ace  Traubel,  he  remarked  of  this  sudden  change  in  the 
critical  attitude  of  the  poet;  "Swinburne — ain't  he  the 
damnedest  simulacrum!"  Simulacrum  in  this  case  is 
almost  too  good  to  be  true.  That  exquisite  poet  and 
prose  stylist,  Alice  Meynell,  reached  the  same  conclu 
sion  in  her  Hearts  of  Controversy,  about  Swinburne; 
she  doesn't  even  believe  in  his  foaming  passion. 

After  reading  that  Shelley  lived  on  fried  bread  I 
upset  our  kitchen  by  frying  bread  and  writing  verse 
under  its  greasy  inspiration.  That,  and  my  short-lived 
Whitman  worship,  are  indices  of  my  weather-cock  tem 
perament.  And  with  Walt  there  was  a  more  personal 
reason.  I  was  in  love  with  a  dainty  miss  who  weighed 
two  hundred  pounds.  She  literally  oozed  health,  and 
was  sentimental,  withal;  most  fat  girls  are.  Together  we 
read  Children  of  Adam,  and  when  I  showed  her  photo 
graph  to  Walt  one  hot  afternoon  in  Camden — 1877 — 
the  good  old  soul  sympathetically  said:  "She  will  be  a 
mother  of  ten,  at  least,"  appraising  her,  as  he  would  a 
brood-mare.  He  saw  men  and  women  as  fathers  and 
mothers,  and  his  preoccupation  with  sex,  above  all, 
with  maternity,  caused  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  to 
write  in  The  Century  that  there  are  other  lights  in  which 
to  view  the  beloved  than  as  the  mother  of  one's  future 
children.  However,  Walt  was  right.  He  represented 
the  violent  recoil  from  the  New  England  school  in  whose 
veins  flowed  ink  and  ice-water.  His  bombastic  patri 
otism,  his  delight  in  cataloguing  the  various  parts  of  the 
human  body  was  but  a  revolt  against  the  nasty-nice 
puritanism  of  his  day.  It's  a  dull  reading  for  us  now, 
accustomed  as  we  are  to  the  poetry  and  fiction  of  ladies 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  197 

with  triple-barrelled  names.  In  the  seventies  when 
Moncure  D.  Conway  pleaded  for  a  fair  hearing,  Walt 
Wliitman's  name  was  anathema.  In  company  with  that 
same  fat  girl  I  took  him  to  all  the  concerts  I  could.  He 
usually  scribbled,  but  enjoyed  the  music  as  he  enjoyed 
life,  seemingly  through  his  pores.  He  was  as  receptive  as 
a  sponge.  And  he  was  one. 

Then  the  pen  fever  seized  me.  After  that  Sunday 
afternoon  hailstorm  of  which  I  wrote  I  went  into  the 
street  and  ate  my  fill,  as  if  it  were  ice-cream.  Pneu 
monia,  coupled  with  typhoid  fever,  followed,  and  it  meant 
one  year  indoors  for  me;  it  spoiled  me  completely,  for  I 
had  only  to  emit  a  hollow  cough  and  my  school  was 
over  for  the  day.  Boys  are  worse  humbugs  than  girls 
— and  that  is  saying  a  lot.  I  slipped  around  the  curve 
of  least  resistance,  and  each  experiment  was  only  the 
search  after  a  softer  spot  to  nestle  in.  I  was  like  a  cat. 
I  wanted  my  place  in  the  sun,  and  with  a  Dickens'  novel 
and  an  apple  (or  ten  apples)  I  was  perfectly  content  to  let 
the  world  wag  on.  The  vagabond  spirit  of  Whitman  fol 
lowed  the  trail  of  the  gypsy.  Much  later,  when  Walden 
and  A  Walk  to  Wauchusetts  fell  into  my  hands,  I  realised 
that  in  David  Thoreau  a  true  American  is  incarnated,  and 
not  in  Whitman.  And  the  prose  of  Thoreau.  What  an 
artist !  After  the  word-wallowing  of  Walt  who  wrote 
neither  prose  nor  poetry,  the  incisive  sentences,  the  swift- 
moving  paragraphs,  the  nutty  Yankee  flavour  are  singu 
larly  convincing.  A  mystic,  he  writes  not  in  the  clear- 
obscure  style  of  Emerson,  but  with  the  precision,  the  con 
cision,  and  the  light,  dark  from  excess  of  brilliance.  "  I 
hear  music  below;  it  washes  the  dust  of  life,  and  every 
thing  I  look  at."  "The  pine-tree  is  as  immortal  as  I 
am,  and  perchance,  go  to  as  high  a  heaven,  there  to 


198  STEEPLEJACK 


tower  above  me  still."  Walt,  who  suffered  from  a  mental 
indigestion,  brought  on  by  MacPherson's  Ossian,  Emer 
son,  and  Thoreau — R.  L.  Stevenson  first  pointed  the 
debt  he  owed  Thoreau — never  clarified  his  mental  proc 
esses  enough  to  write  as  well  as  the  man  of  Walden  Pond. 
He  has  no  more  sex — though  he  loudly  advertises  his 
virility  by  hanging  his  banner  on  the  outer  wall — than 
Thoreau,  whose  early  and  unhappy  love-affair — she 
married  his  brother — made  him  a  stoic.  He  is  more 
tonic  than  Whitman,  and  I  say  this,  well  remembering 
the  fact  that  in  my  obituary  of  Walt  I  slopped  over  most 
uncritically. 

I  repeat,  pen  and  ink  and  paper  beckoned  me  to  that 
swamp  from  which  no  penman  ever  emerges.  My  old 
joke,  so  old  that  it  is  decrepit,  that  once  a  newspaper 
man,  always  a  cocotte,  is  not  without  a  shade  of  truth. 
I  had  made  foolish  and  extravagant  attempts  at  fiction: 
The  Comet,  The  Velvet  Tree,  The  V-Shaped  Corsage,  and 
criticism  had  to  come  next  on  the  roster  of  my  destiny. 
I  needs  must  write  about  music  or  burst.  I  began  with 
the  Charles  H.  Jarvis  Classical  Soirees  in  Natatorium  Hall. 
My  friendship  with  Leander  Williamson,  who,  with  his 
brother,  John,  was  in  the  editorial  department  of  The 
Evening  Bulletin,  led  me  to  make  some  experiments.  I 
showed  them  to  him.  "All  right,"  said  Leander,  "bring 
them  to  me  at  the  office  and  PII  see  that  they  go  into 
type."  Ferdinand  Fetherston  was  a  friend  of  my  par- 
,  ents  and,  as  publisher  of  the  newspaper,  in  company  with 
Mr.  Peacock,  I  had  my  way  cleared,  though  it  was 
Leander  who  gave  me  my  first  lift.  The  Jarvis  concerts 
invariably  took  place  on  Saturday  nights.  I  had  free 
admission  because  of  the  Jarvis  friendship.  I  usually 
reached  the  hall  before  he  did.  On  Sundays  I  laboriously 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  199 

carved  out  an  article.  Dr.  Lambdin  and  Mr.  Bunting 
were  then  the  principal  music-critics.  I  read  them  with 
fanatical  fervour;  but  I  also  read  Berlioz,  Dr.  Ritter,  the 
husband  of  Fanny  Raymond  Ritter,  and  Franz  Hueffer. 
Critically,  New  York  didn't  exist  for  me;  Boston  did  in 
the  shape  of  Dwight's  Journal  of  Music.  I  possessed  the 
critical  vocabulary  before  I  knew  my  scales.  After 
passing  under  the  revision  of  my  mother  the  "story" 
was  ready.  How  well  I  recall  my  halting  heart  as  I 
climbed  the  two  or  three  stories  to  the  office  of  The  Bul 
letin.  Leander  would  ask  me  if  I  were  ill  or  only  fright 
ened.  "It's  those  stairs,"  I  would  reply.  It  was  stage 
fright,  all  the  more  ridiculous  because  I  was  paid  nothing 
for  my  work.  It  was  worth  nothing.  On  Tuesday,  my 
little  pair  of  paragraphs  duly  appeared.  I,  at  least,  read 
them;  so  did  Mr.  Jarvis.  Michael  Cross  merely  smiled, 
his  funny  bone  being  tickled  by  the  idea  of  this  putting 
the  cart  before  the  horse,  writing  of  an  art  instead  of  first 
mastering  it.  But  the  method  hath  precedents.  I  saved 
these  notices  and  I  find  that  they  read  like  the  regulation 
bone-dry  critique,  with  its  spilth  of  adjectives  and  its 
amateurish  omniscience.  I  had  horse-sense  enough  to 
avoid  too  many  technical  terms,  and  the  criticisms  that 
read  the  most  reasonable  are  those  in  which  the  news 
element  predominates.  But  the  critical  values !  Oh ! 
Moscheles  and  Kalkbrenner  were  treated  with  the  same 
consideration  as  Beethoven  and  Schumann.  Max  Hein- 
rich  often  sang,  always  the  best  music.  Emil  Gastel  was  a 
frequent  "guest,"  as  were  Mrs.  Darling,  Leopold  Engelke, 
Massah  Warner,  and  Richard  Zeckwer.  I  again  heard 
the  call.  I  determined  to  both  play  music  and  write 
about  it.  "Qui  a  bu,  boira!"  With  the  emerald  of 
Antoninus  I  could  have  said:  "Whatever  happens  I 


2OO 


STEEPLEJACK 


must  be  emerald!"     I  determined  to  be  a  musician  and 
a  litterateur.     "Gosh!"  said  my  boy  friends. 

I  went  in  the  Summer  to  Bryn  Mawr,  then  a  sketch  of 
its  present  prosperity.  I  remember  the  day  the  Wheeler 
house  was  finished  and  with  old  Sam  Clemens,  the  builder, 
I  put  the  little  tree  on  the  ridge-pole  of  the  roof.  I  saw 
Walter  Damrosch  conduct  a  chorus  in  the  wings  at  the 
concert  of  his  father,  Leopold  Damrosch,  at  which  "The 
Damnation  of  Faust,"  by  Berlioz,  was  sung.  I  recall 
trudging  after  every  parade  that  I  encountered,  with 
Beck's  military  band  at  the  head.  Beck,  a  German, 
was  then  the  Sousa  of  Philadelphia.  He  was  the  father 
of  James  M.  Beck.  I  began  to  watch  the  pageant  of  life. 
I  asked  Leander  if  I  might  write  of  fires,  dog- fights,  or 
drunken  men.  He  said  yes.  Unknown  to  my  father, 
and  absolutely  shirking  further  law  study,  I  began  report 
ing  for  The  Bulletin.  Salary  nil  and  unattached.  My 
enthusiasm  might  have  led  to  a  profitable  connection 
if  I  had  stuck  to  the  game.  I  tried  my  prentice  hand  at 
everything.  I  reported  lectures.  I  went  to  spiritual 
istic  seances,  and  one  Sunday  night,  at  the  corner  of 
Thirteenth  Street  and  Girard  Avenue,  I  was  thrown 
out  bodily  by  an  enraged  "medium"  whose  wrist  I  held 
till  the  lights  were  turned  on.  As  an  amateur  magician 
that  kind  of  foolery  was  easy  to  expose,  but  the  duped 
ones  present  had  other  views  and  I  fled  down  two  flights 
pursued  by  most  unspiritual  language.  I  was  congratu 
lated  by  Leander  Williamson,  who  told  me  that  if  I  kept  it 
up  a  century  or  so  I  might  become  an  editor.  He  jeer- 
ingly  referred  to  me  as  the  "boy-critic."  I  taught  piano. 
I  went  into  the  house  of  bondage,  where  to  the  click  of  the 
metronome,  the  puling  attempts  of  the  pupil,  and  the 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  201 

irritable  lead-pencil  of  the  teacher  was  added  the  fear 
that  no  money  would  be  forthcoming  at  the  end  of  the 
term.  And  then  my  good  mother,  who  thought  piano 
teaching  was  a  gay  rigadoon,  added  to  my  list  of  pupils 
a  half-dozen  charity  patients.  I  didn't  much  mind  the 
extra  burdens.  But  I  did  protest  against  the  lack  of 
talent  I  found  among  them.  I  went  to  Riverton,  N.  J., 
two  days  a  week.  That  was  an  agreeable  diversion; 
the  trip,  the  pretty  country  roads,  the  cordial  pupils— 
ah !  what  a  nice  lot  of  little  girls  I  had.  Their  names 
sound  like  a  rosary;  Hattie  Hovey,  Ellie  Earp,  Josie 
Cook,  Bertie  Bechtel,  and  other  children,  who  tapped 
the  keys  while  their  mothers  complacently  listened,  occa 
sionally  rewarding  me  with  home-made  pie  and  milk. 
It  was  idyllic.  I  ate  the  pie  and  gave  the  milk  to 
the  cat.  I  must  have  been  a  "rotten"  teacher,  yet  my 
pupils  progressed.  I  had  more  important  ones  in  the 
city;  Miss  Lillie  Frismuth,  of  Chestnut  Street,  the  Misses 
Lewis,  of  Pine  Street,  and  Miss  Dougherty,  of  Spruce 
Street.  If  I  had  stayed  in  the  rut,  to-day  I  might  have 
owned  a  little  home  near  Manayunk  and  commuted,  and 
contributed  to  the  Musical  Banner,  and  despite  the  dusti- 
ness  of  my  intellectuals  might  have  been  happy  with  a 
galloping  gang  of  grandchildren.  Qui  sait? 

About  this  time  I  met  Theodore  Presser,  who,  as  every 
one  knows,  has  started  musical  orphan  asylums,  homes 
for  reformed  musicians,  and  sanatoriums  for  hands  lamed 
by  excessive  use  of  the  thumbs  on  the  black  keys.  Then, 
Mr.  Presser  was  a  lean,  hungry-looking  man  with  his 
head  full  of  haif-crazy  schemes;  at  least,  they  seemed  so 
to  me.  He  had  started  a  musical  monthly  whose  pulse, 
temperature,  and  respiration  he  watched  as  if  it  had  been 
a  chick  in  an  incubator.  And  it  was  a  chick  of  uncertain 


202  STEEPLEJACK 

health.  I  wrote  paragraphs  for  it;  betimes,  I  spread 
my  wings  and  flew  to  the  editorial  roost  and  sounded 
my  little  cock-a-doodle-doo.  My  salary  was  as  ever, 
nothing;  but  Theodore  let  me  splash  about  in  his  pond 
and  I  was  contented.  Many  nights  we  went  to  the  post- 
office  there  anxiously  to  open  letters.  What  a  hurrah 
of  joy  when  a  dollar  bill  was  found  for  an  annual  sub 
scription  !  Presser,  who  is  the  Henry  Ford  of  Philadel 
phia  sheet-music,  saw  further  ahead  than  I.  The  Etude 
has  a  subscription  list  that  must  make  envious  even  Mr. 
Bok.  Presser  did  it  all  with  his  canny  Yankee  patience 
and  shrewdness.  He  knew  that  the  daughter  of  the 
plumber,  the  daughter  of  the  policeman,  hankered  after 
music,  and  he  deliberately  built  a  machine  to  cater  to 
their  needs.  The  curious  part  of  it  is  that  he  really 
improved  their  taste.  The  most  famous  pianists  con 
tribute  to  The  Etude,  are  read  and  inwardly  digested. 
I  am  in  hopes  that  if  these  "few  lines  may  meet  his  eye" 
— as  they  say  in  manuals  of  writing  made  easy  for 
servant-girls — that  he  will  give  me  a  bed  for  my  old 
bones  in  one  of  his  eleemosynary  institutions.  You 
never  can  tell.  A  music-teacher,  a  music-critic,  an  au 
thor — the  very  gods  fight  against  them  in  the  heavens. 

But  matters  were  coming  to  a  climax.  If  Miss  Brew- 
ster  had  defined  my  wishes,  given  them  pith  and  point, 
where  great  writers  on  whom  I  leaned  did  not,  it  was  be 
cause  her  book  touched  responsive  chords.  This  con 
tinuing  explanation  of  mine  must  strike  you  as  an  apology 
for  my  native  indecision,  and,  as  Leslie  Stephen  says: 
"An  apology  sometimes  is  worse  than  a  satire."  Further 
to  muddle  my  affairs  was  a  disinclination  to  make  money. 
My  father  often  declared  that  if  I  saw  a  ten-dollar  bill 
coming  to  greet  me  I  would  run  away.  I  have  changed 
since  then.  I  like  money.  Who  doesn't?  I  spend  it, 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  203 

believing  that  it's  bad  luck  to  save.  But  to  pass  our 
interval  between  two  eternities  raking  in  gold  is  simply 
absurd  to  me.  I  have  always  worked  for  leisure  to  waste 
time.  I  know  of  some  families,  not  bohemian  in  their 
habits,  who  are  never  more  than  a  few  dollars  ahead  dur 
ing  their  lifetime.  I  am  in  that  class,  living  from  day 
to  day  on  the  industry  of  my  pen.  It  seems  ridiculous, 
and  it  is  perilous.  Life  at  best  is  a  dangerous  adventure, 
and  I  think  that  the  modern  gladiator  should  change  the 
old  formula  and  cry  in  the  arena:  O  Death!  those  who 
are  about  to  live,  salute  thee.  Schopenhauer — who  has 
been  wittily  described  by  Paul  Bourget  as  "Chamfort  a 
la  choucroute" — argued  that  philosophers  more  than 
other  men  should  have  means  ample  enough  to  allow 
them  leisure.  It  is  time,  not  money,  that  is  the  true 
treasure  of  life.  Our  sole  recompense  is  to  have  lived, 
but  to  have  lived  as  we  elect,  not  as  the  other  fellow  tells 
us  to.  Ay !  there's  the  rub.  And,  as  there  is  nothing  so 
much  to  be  feared  as  fear  of  fear,  then  money  is  the  sol 
vent.  Without  it  you  fear,  yes,  fear.  I  dodged  my  duties 
like  the  moral  skulker  that  I  was,  not  knowing  then  that 
the  hawthorn  must  grow  with  the  spirit  of  the  triangle 
in  it,  else  not  be  hawthorn;  that  the  "honey-harp,"  the 
bee  as  Thoreau  calls  it,  remains  valiantly  a  bee  till  its 
final  exit  to  honey-heaven.  But  I  didn't  moralise  dur 
ing  the  middle  seventies.  I  roared  like  a  serpent,  and 
hissed  like  a  lion — a  clothes-line;  and  I  avoided  every  op 
portunity  where  money  might  be  acquired.  I  see  now  it 
was  because  of  my  absorption  in  a  few  ideas,  which 
to-day  I  repudiate.  The  leopard  does  change  its  spots 
once  in  a  while  despite  the  adage. 

Suddenly  I  decided  that  life  held  nothing  so  precious 
as  Paris.  To  help  matters  along,  I  offered  myself  as  a 
clerk  in  a  piano  house.  It  was  the  Chickering  piano 


204  STEEPLEJACK 

agency  at  the  corner  of  Chestnut  and  Thirteenth  Streets, 
where  Wanamaker's  now  stands.  Mr.  William  D.  Dut- 
ton,  still  spry  and  little  changed  by  the  passing  of  forty 
years,  was  associated  with  his  father,  William  H.  Dutton, 
in  the  business.  It  was  a  pleasant  wareroom.  I  arrived 
at  6  A.  M.,  went  to  the  basement,  and  two  hours  later, 
after  my  travail  with  finger  exercises  and  Czerny  studies, 
I  was  ready  for  the  day's  toil.  It  was  light.  Young 
Mr.  Dutton,  who  had  a  flair  for  the  artistic,  played  the 
piano  with  taste  and  possessed  an  excellent  technique. 
His  father,  a  handsome  old  gentleman  with  a  fresh  com 
plexion,  would  say  as  his  son  played:  "He  studied  the 
Hummel  school.  It's  the  only  one."  That  is  true;  it 
is  the  only  one  in  which  to  acquire  pearly  scales,  but  it  is 
otherwise  inadequate.  When  customers  entered  I  had 
to  accost  them.  Once  I  was  showing  off  my  paces  on  a 
second-hand  instrument  before  a  prospective  purchaser, 
a  woman,  whose  face  expressed  repugnance.  Mr.  Dut 
ton  supervened:  "James,"  he  suggested,  "clean  that  case 
with  the  feather-duster.  I'll  show  the  lady  the  piano"; 
and  he  began  playing  Gottschalk's  "Cradle  Song"  with 
a  touch  that  melted  her  heart.  She  bought  the  piano. 
After  she  went  away  he  said  to  me  with  a  characteristic 
glance  over  his  eye-glasses,  "It  all  depends  on  the  way 
it's  done,  young  man.  If  your  touch  is  too  truthful 
with  a  shaky  old  piano  you  will  never  sell  it."  It  was  a 
grand  lesson  in  worldly  ethics  for  me.  I  never  forgot 
it.  And  when  I  read  Ibsen's  statement  that  all  truths 
grow  old  or  stale  after  twenty  years,  I  think  of  Mr. 
Dutton  and  his  second-hand  piano. 

"Our  America  is   here  or  nowhere,"   says   the  poet. 
We  are  the  supermen.     Why  wait  for  another  century 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  205 

to  prove  it.  u  You  must  live  in  the  present,  launch  your 
self  on  any  wave;  find  your  eternity  in  each  moment." 
I  hadn't  read  Thoreau  then,  but  Irish-like,  I  determined 
to  take  the  bull  by  both  the  horns  of  dilemma.  I  was 
like  the  poet's  cloud,  "which  moveth  altogether  if  it 
moves  at  all."  I  actually  sickened  for  Paris.  It  was  in 
1878,  the  year  of  the  first  Exposition  since  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,  France  was  en  fete.  Best  of  all,  Liszt 
was  named  honorary  director  of  the  Hungarian  section 
at  the  Trocadero.  An  impulse  throttled  me.  Why  not 
steal  away  between  two  days,  sail  to  Paris,  see  Liszt  and 
die?  The  Liszt  cult  was  strong  in  our  household.  For 
my  mother  he  was  the  Abbe  Liszt,  for  my  father  a  gro 
tesque  daddy-long-legs,  or  a  centipede.  His  picture 
showed  us  one  of  those  faces  that  had  become  hardened 
in  the  pitiless  glare  of  the  public  glance.  Nevertheless, 
he  was  a  cult,  and  a  cult,  as  has  been  wisely  remarked, 
is  always  annoying  to  those  who  do  not  join  in  it,  and 
generally  hurtful  to  those  who  do.  But,  oh !  to  see  him, 
to  hear  him  play.  I  began  to  manoeuvre.  I  sold  my 
beloved  books.  I  parted  with  my  pictures.  I  scraped 
and  saved  and  stared  in  the  windows  of  steamship  offices. 
It  was  to  be  a  stealthy  departure,  an  egotistic  elopement, 
with  a  melancholy  alibi  of  the  soul.  At  last  I  was  to 
"Drive  a  straight  furrow  and  come  to  the  true  measure 
of  man"  (I  had  been  reading  Theocritus,  his  Hylas). 
To  attain  the  necessary  courage  I  became  reticent, 
avoided  my  friends  and  family.  Anyone  with  a  half 
eye  would  have  noted  my  nervous  behaviour  and  watched 
me.  That  was  precisely  what  happened.  I  packed  my 
few  clothes  in  a  handbag  and  was  caught  in  the  act  by 
my  brother,  Paul,  who,  always  realistic,  asked:  "What's 
her  name  ?  "  Art,  I  might  have  replied,  but  with  Macchia- 


206  STEEPLEJACK 

vellian  casuistry  asked  him  in  turn:  "Who  won  the 
game  to-day?"  Finally,  I  boldly  marched  into  the 
agency  of  the  French  line,  and  bought  for  $28  a  ticket 
in  the  fourth  class  of  the  Canada,  sailing  September  25, 
1878.  There  are  some  dates  that  are  unforgetable. 
You  may  forget  the  name  of  your  divorced  wife;  but 
your  first  ocean  trip — never !  (That  is,  if  you  are  a 
person  of  sentiment.)  I  expected  to  make  a  "clean 
getaway,"  as  they  say  in  superior  criminal  circles,  but  I 
was  balked,  and  by  my  own  imprudence.  Early  in  the 
morning — the  steamer  was  to  leave  New  York  about  2  P.  M. 
— I  awoke  my  parents  and  told  them  of  my  plan.  They 
consented  with  suspicious  alacrity,  after  interposing  the 
usual  objections;  my  youth,  my  health  (I  had,  still  have, 
the  constitution  of  an  ox;  knock  wood  !).  It  was  settled. 
Rejoicing,  I  awoke  my  brother,  who  made  comments 
unfit  to  print.  At  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  station, 
then  at  Thirty-second  and  Market  Streets,  a  few  friends 
saw  us  off — I  was  in  the  custody  of  brother  John — 
Alfredo  Barili  among  the  rest.  New  York  reached,  I 
went  on  board.  Ring  down  the  curtain  on  old  Phila 
delphia  ! 

I  have  written  enough  to  give  you  a  fair  idea  of  my 
mental  and  physical  characteristics,  so  that  you  will 
judge  the  critic  as  he  should  be.  This  is  the  method 
suggested  by  Hennequin,  of  which  I  told  you.  A  moral 
precis  of  the  critic  and  a  peep  at  his  temperament,  then 
much  that  is  dark  becomes  light.  As  for  the  modesty 
of  the  method?  Such  a  monster  as  a  modest  author  does 
not  exist.  Perhaps  one  is  mentioned  in  history,  but  he 
was  so  morbidly  modest  that  he  forgot  to  write  his  book. 
Therefore,  accept  my  chattering  as  a  thing  to  be  expected. 
I  am  an  optimist  at  bottom,  with  a  superficial  coating  of 


JIM  THE   PENMAN  207 

pessimism,  which  thaws  near  a  piano,  a  pretty  girl,  or 
a  glass  of  Pilsner.  Without  hope  it  is  impossible  to  achieve 
the  hopeless.  I  believe  that  anyone  who  has  sung  a  song 
of  hope  has  his  prayer  answered;  indeed,  William  James 
has  said  that  no  prayer  is  unanswered;  when  it  is  uttered 
the  relief  (liberation  of  nervous  energy)  is  instantaneous. 
But  I  loathe  the  fixed  grin  on  the  faces  of  those  cheerful 
humbugs,  adherents  of  cheerful  cults,  pollyannas,  and 
other  bores.  These  people  want  you  to  be  happy  against 
your  will.  Time  works  prodigies,  but  the  hypocrite 
never  dies.  "Les  gros  bataillons  ont  tou jours  raison," 
wrote  Jomini,  and  this  must  be,  not  alone  in  the  battle 
field,  but  in  peaceful  life — charlatans  are  always  in  the 
majority,  charlatans  and  imbeciles.  I  have  spent  my 
life  in  tilting  at  them,  and  at  times  I  am  afraid  to  look  at 
the  mirror. 

Maeterlinck  asks:  "Are  you  of  those  who  name  or 
only  repeat  names?"  I  fear  I  am  one  of  the  repeaters. 
No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  wife  (if  they  have  been  married 
long  enough),  and  I  think  that  no  writer  should  be  a 
hero  to  his  readers.  It  is  an  impressive  pose — that  of 
omniscience,  or  lofty  morals.  But  a  whited  sepulchre 
is  soon  deprived  of  its  whitewash.  If  a  critic  can't  be 
human,  then  let  him  become  a  pedicure  or  a  bugologist. 
Swinburne  said:  "I  have  never  been  able  to  see  what 
should  attract  a  man  to  the  profession  of  criticism  but 
the  noble  pleasure  of  praising" — and  then  he  went  out 
and  slew  his  enemies  (critics  and  authors)  by  the  hun 
dreds.  He  had  the  most  vitriolic  pen  in  England.  It 
sounds  magnanimous,  but  neither  praise  nor  blame  should 
be  the  goal  of  the  critic.  To  spill  his  own  soul,  that  should 
be  his  aim.  Notwithstanding  the  talk  about  objective 
criticism,  no  such  abstraction  is  thinkable.  A  critic  re- 


208  STEEPLEJACK 

lates  his  prejudices,  nothing  more.  It  is  well  to  possess 
prejudices.  They  lend  to  life  a  meaning.  For  example, 
consider  my  eclecticism.  In  Edgar  Quinet's  romance, 
Merlin,  we  read  of  a  visit  made  by  the  magician  to 
Prester  John  at  his  abbey.  This  abbey  is  an  astounding 
conglomeration  of  architectures — pagoda,  mosque,  ba 
silica,  Greek  temple,  synagogue,  cathedral,  Byzantine 
and  Gothic  chapels,  minarets,  towers,  turrets  in  bewilder 
ing  array.  Prester  John  is  a  venerable  man  with  a  long 
white  beard:  "Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  turban  with  a 
sapphire  cross.  At  his  neck  hung  a  golden  crescent,  and 
he  supported  himself  upon  a  staff  after  the  manner  of  a 
Brahmin.  Three  children  followed  him,  who  carried 
each  upon  the  breast,  an  open  book.  The  first  was  the 
collection  of  the  Vedas,  the  second  was  the  Bible,  the 
third  the  Koran.  At  certain  moments  Prester  John 
stopped  and  read  a  few  lines  from  one  of  the  sacred 
volumes;  after  which  he  continued  his  walk,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  stars."  Of  course,  he  stumped  his  toe 
against  the  actual,  as  do  all  mystics.  Eclectic  is  my  taste 
in  creeds  and  cultures.  And  in  cultured  eclecticism  may 
be  found  the  shallows  and  depths,  defects  and  virtues 
of  our  times.  I  am  the  child  of  my  century,  and 
can  echo  Mallarme:  "Helas!  J'ai  lu  tous  les  livres." 
But  I  had  set  my  feet  upon  the  trail  of  Bohemia,  the 
fabulous  "sea-coast"  that  lures  most  men.  You  may  be 
as  prudish  as  an  oyster,  as  patient  as  a  prostitute,  as 
sober  as  a  Judge  (naturally  a  Judge  who  doesn't  drink), 
but  you  shall  not  escape  a  touch  of  lunar  folly  when 
young  girls  sometimes  with  the  seal  of  their  solitudes 
see  the  moon  in  company  with  their  sweethearts — little 
shocks  without  words,  not  by  Mendelssohn;  but  it 
suffices  for  the  lads  to  see  the  girls.  My  moonshine  came 


JIM   THE   PENMAN  209 

from  the  Seven  Arts;  they  are  indigenous  to  Bohemia. 
Where  is  Bohemia?  Is  it  a  state,  not  of  soul,  but  of 
the  purse?  Perhaps,  again  I  was  to  discover  it  through 
disenchanting  experience.  Later  I  knew  that  there  is 
only  one  way  to  become  a  perfect  Bohemian;  lead  the 
existence  of  a  sober  sedentary  bourgeois,  with  cobbler's 
wax  on  your  chair,  grease  on  your  elbow,  sweat  on  your 
brow,  and,  what  the  metaphysicians  call  the  Will-to-Sit- 
Still.  Then  you  may  write  a  book,  master  music,  or 
play  on  your  intellectual  instrument  to  perfection  as 
Henry  James  puts  it.  But  I  hear  the  "all  ashore" 
whistle.  All  aboard  for  Paris ! 


PART  II 
PARIS  FORTY  YEARS  AGO 


I'M  AFLOAT 

Behold  me  afloat  at  last  on  that  good  old  tub,  long 
since  sent  to  the  scrap-heap,  the  Canada  of  the  Com- 
pagnie  Generale  Transatlantique,  with  my  heart  full  of 
hope,  my  eyes  turned  eastward,  my  wallet  not  too  heavy, 
and  few  clothes.  My  brother  John  took  aside  the  chief 
steward  of  the  quatrieme  classe  and  tipped  him.  A 
swift  survey  had  told  him  that  I  was  in  for  trouble,  and 
perhaps,  he  thought  it  would  open  my  eyes  all  the  sooner 
to  realities.  That  fourth-class  on  the  outward-bound 
steamship  politely  masked  its  true  name;  it  was  the 
steerage,  nothing  more,  nothing  less.  At  the  age  of 
thirty  I  would  have  revolted  at  the  smells,  the  dirt,  the 
promiscuity,  but  youth  swallows  trouble  and  I  was  not 
disgusted.  It  was  life.  And  I  meant  to  live.  It  soon 
proved  to  be  life,  of  all  sorts.  We  slept  in  bunks,  not 
beds,  with  no  protection  from  the  prying  gaze  of  neigh 
bours.  Our  steward  rigged  up  a  calico  curtain  for  my 
couch,  as  if  I  were  a  girl.  The  men  made  rude  com 
mentaries.  We  were  segregated;  the  women  were  across 
the  corridor.  When  I  read  Stevenson's  Amateur  Emi 
grant  I  admired  his  art,  though  wondered  at  his  dodging 
of  disagreeable  details.  His  description  is  rose-coloured. 
But  a  steerage,  even  the  best,  and  the  French  Line  was 
not  so  bad  as  the  worst,  is  horrible.  I  confess  when  bed 
time  came  that  I  was  rather  blue  about  the  gills.  The 
smell,  a  medley  of  bad  tobacco,  alcohol,  unwashed  bodies, 
vile  breaths — phew !  I  must  have  been  copper-lined  and 


2i4  STEEPLEJACK 

riveted  to  stand  the  combination.  Every  port-hole  was 
closed;  we  had  struck  a  bit  of  rough  water,  and  the  wind 
was  freshening.  The  gabbling  died  away.  Lights  were 
out.  I  clutched  my  pocketbook  and  fell  into  a  doze. 
It  didn't  last,  noises  awoke  me.  The  ship  was  pitching, 
and  oh !  brethren,  what  followed  I  shan't  record,  except 
one  word — seasickness.  I've  crossed  forty  odd  times 
and  never  have  I  been,  in  fair  weather  or  foul,  seasick. 
That  night  tried  my  nerves.  I  went  on  deck  to  escape 
nausea,  and  at  once  felt  better.  My  nose  had  nearly 
proved  me  coward. 

Next  morning  I  sought  the  head  steward  and  asked 
him  why  I  was  covered  with  little  red  spots.  He  at 
once  explained  that  the  salt  air  affected  the  blood,  that 

"but,"  I  interrupted  "the  salt  air  doesn't  run  over  the 
bed  with  legs,  does  it?"  My  crudeness  made  him  blush. 
"Ah,  Monsieur,"  he  deprecatingly  replied,  "some  things 
must  be.  The  fare  is  cheap,  and  if  you  find  certain  other 
passengers,  well — the  company  doesn't  charge  extra  for 
their  passage."  It  was  now  my  turn  to  blush.  I  was 
drop-ripe  in  my  verdancy,  but  the  cynicism  of  this  elderly 
person  pained  me.  What  a  rascal  he  was.  He  plundered 
me  of  my  five-franc  pieces,  whether  in  making  change 
or  charging  for  extras — tobacco,  coffee.  The  wine  was 
free.  It  was  also  poisonous.  I  ordered  a  better  vintage 
— a  vin  bleu  that  rasped  my  throat,  but  I  could  get  it 
down.  When  I  saw  the  sea  it  was  as  flat  as  a  temperance 
lecture,  I  was  disappointed  because  of  its  wet  monotony. 
I  quoted  Landor  to  help  me  out:  "Is  this  the  mighty 
ocean? — is  this  all?"  Like  the  girl  in  the  Stendhal 
novel  who  found  love  insipid,  I  felt  like  asking:  "Is 
that  all?"  I  wished  for  this  same  monotony  a  week 
later  when  we  nosed  into  a  gale  that  kept  us  under  cover 


I'M  AFLOAT  215 


for  two  days,  swept  a  seaman  into  the  water,  and  banged 
things  generally.  Then  I  saw  my  fellow  travellers  with 
out  their  daily  posing.  A  ship  is  the  same  all  over  as 
far  as  human  nature  is  concerned.  The  first  day  I  had 
walked  the  decks,  and  was  not  held  up  at  the  various 
barriers  because  I  may  have  been  better  dressed  than 
my  companions;  but  the  second  day  out  I  was  asked  for 
my  ticket  and  peremptorily  bidden  to  go  to  the  deck 
below.  I  resented  the  manner  of  the  chap,  who  wasn't 
precisely  rough,  but,  as  I  thought,  too  sharp.  Did  he 
take  me  for  the  cattle  herded  forward?  I  soon  learned 
that  when  you  travel  fourth-class  you  are  considered 
fourth-class,  with  all  its  implications.  It  was  my  first 
contact  with  social  distinctions.  I  didn't  like  it.  The 
third  and  fourth  class  mingled  on  the  same  deck,  though 
we  ate  and  slept  apart;  second-class  was  almost  aristo 
cratic;  first-class  in  the  empyrean.  After  I  had  been 
turned  out  of  first-class  I  sat  down  on  the  second  deck; 
this  time  I  was  chased  away,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of 
my  fourth-class  contemporaries.  I  was  ignorant  of  rules, 
but  they  thought  I  was  putting  on  airs,  and  therefore  de 
served  a  rebuke,  but  as  I  didn't  attempt  to  play  the  dis 
guised  nobleman  or  reduced  gentleman,  I  was  soon  re 
ceived  into  the  guild  of  dirt  and  poverty  as  if  I  belonged 
there.  I  did.  I  was  presently  as  unkempt  as  my  asso 
ciates.  I  sported  a  Scotch  cap,  went  collarless,  wore  a 
flannel  shirt,  and  my  hands  and  face  did  not  shine  from 
soap.  I  defy  anyone  to  keep  neat  in  such  circumstances. 
The  crowd  wasn't  a  bad  one;  it  was  poor,  and  had 
neither  time  nor  inclination  to  wash.  "Personal  dirti 
ness  is  the  real  and  permanent  dividing  line  of  classes  .  .  . 
there  is  no  social  equality  between  the  clean  and  dirty. 
The  question  of  physical  purity  lies  at  the  root  of  the 


216  STEEPLEJACK 

real  democratic  problem,"  wrote  Havelock  Ellis.  Clean 
liness  is  greater  than  godliness,  and  I  have  always  noted 
that  the  more  superstitious  a  religion  the  filthier  its  fol 
lowers.  What  surprises  me  now  is  to  remember  with 
what  ease  I  reflected  the  colour  (a  black  and  tan)  of  the 
society  in  which  I  found  myself.  There  was  the  usual 
mixture.  A  dozen  black-sheep,  some  members  of  good 
families,  who  left  home  in  disgrace  because  of  gambling 
debts  or  women  scandals,  and  were  returning  in  a  still 
more  disgraceful  state.  Then  there  were  a  half-dozen 
families  who  had  saved  enough  to  retire  to  their  own 
departments  in  the  provinces  and  live  "en  bourgeois," 
a  dream  realised.  Two  theological  students  on  their  way 
to  Rome  via  Paris  added  variety  to  the  personnel.  I 
must  explain  that  they,  like  the  families  I  speak  of, 
were  in  the  third-class.  Economy  was  their  shibboleth. 
As  I  seemed  fairly  decent  (I  brushed  my  hair  every  day) 
I  was  admitted,  though  not  without  reservations,  into 
the  aristocracy  of  the  steerage.  Our  voyage  was  not 
unpleasant;  even  in  Hades  good  company  counts.  The 
early  rising  was  the  worst  part  of  the  day,  the  sleeping- 
quarters  smelled  to  heaven;  but  once  on  deck  life  became 
bearable.  That  first  breakfast,  a  bowl  of  coffee  and  a 
stale  roll — how  it  went  down !  The  waiting  between 
meals  was  trying  to  healthy  young  stomachs.  Soup, 
boiled  beef,  beans,  a  litre  of  wine  and  bread  "at  dis 
cretion" —I  ate  it  by  the  yard — comprised  the  second 
breakfast;  better  was  the  dinner,  a  function  as  well  as  a 
"feed."  We  had  a  roast  of  some  kind,  fresh  vegetables, 
and  more  wine;  without  that  blessed  wine  the  food  would 
have  gone  begging.  The  promenade  on  deck  was  quite 
fashionable.  I  have  many  times  since  watched  such 
perambulations  from  an  upper  deck;  now  I  was  one  of 


I'M  AFLOAT  217 


the  dramatis  personse.  We  had  no  smoking-room,  hud 
dling  in  the  corridors  when  the  weather  was  unfavourable. 
Have  you  noticed  that  a  war,  a  calamity,  brings  humanity 
to  a  common  level?  What  cared  we  if  the  upper-decks 
looked  down  at  us  condescendingly !  We  were  the  real 
passengers;  the  others  only  phantoms. 

The  "life  of  the  ship"  was  also  with  us.  Above  decks 
he  is  known  as  the  "joy  of  the  smoking-room";  sometimes 
he  is  a  "she."  Our  social  hero  was  a  suspicious  scamp 
in  rags,  a  polylinguist,  a  cultivated  man  of  the  world, 
unshaven,  unshorn,  with  polished  manners,  and  a  tongue 
hung  in  the  middle.  He  gave  himself  out  as  a  gold  pros 
pector  from  the  West,  where  he  had  staked  out  a  claim, 
but — inevitably — had  been  robbed  of  it  by  his  evil  part 
ners  while  he  was  sick  with  fever.  In  fact,  the  old  legend, 
and  related  with  such  authority,  such  a  profusion  of 
details,  that  he  won  our  respect  and  was  nicknamed  the 
"millionaire."  He  borrowed  our  cigarettes,  our  wine, 
our  loose  cash.  Had  he  not  an  uncle,  a  wealthy  banker 
in  the  Rue  de  Provence?  When  our  passage  tickets 
were  collected  he  disappeared.  I  fancy  he  had  bribed 
the  steward;  certainly  he  was  a  stowaway.  But  he  bore 
a  charmed  life  and  only  once  did  I  see  him  discomfited. 
He  had  made  a  jesting  remark  about  religion  to  the 
theological  students,  and  found  himself  sprawling  on  the 
deck;  one  of  the  pair,  a  husky  Irish  lad  with  a  fist  of 
iron,  had  knocked  the  farceur  down.  A  sadly  black  eye 
kept  him  quiet  for  a  few  hours,  and  then  he  sought  our 
sympathy  by  pointing  to  the  swollen  pouch  under  his 
eye  and  gaily  declaring  that  he  received  it  in  a  worthy 
cause— "pour  le  bon  Jesus-Christ";  but  the  students 
were  always  on  the  other  side  of  the  boat  when  he  ven 
tured  on  this  sorry  witticism. 


II 

IN  PARIS  AT  LAST 

We  entered  the  roads  of  Havre,  October  6,  and  the 
next  day  we  were  in  Paris.  Havre  detained  us  because 
the  chief  steward,  with  the  "favoris,"  side  whiskers, 
wished  to  show  us  that  city.  It  was  my  first  taste  of 
French  life.  Everything  seemed  miraculous.  Not  only 
had  I  the  " innocence  of  the  eye"  but  an  innocent  palate; 
the  native  cuisine  opened  my  eyes  as  well  as  my  throat. 
Cookery,  too,  is  one  of  the  Seven  Arts.  The  French 
have  made  it  an  art.  We  went  to  a  gingerbread  fair,  an 
imitation  of  the  fair  at  Vincennes,  and  sought  our  beds 
in  a  condition  of  inflamed  sobriety.  I  remember  lean 
ing  from  the  window  of  my  wretched  little  bedroom  and 
listening  to  a  woman  singing  in  the  back  alley.  She  had 
tears  in  her  voice,  and  her  voice  was  riddled  by  rum.  I 
fell  asleep  in  a  fever  of  contentment  which  even  the 
awakening  in  a  chilly  drab  dawn  did  not  dispel.  After 
a  bowl  of  onion  soup,  the  regulation  remedy,  we  boarded 
our  train,  third-class  compartments.  I  had  gone  up  in 
the  social  scale,  had  mounted  just  one  rung  on  the  ladder. 
Drizzling  rain  fell  as  we  entered  the  Gare  St.  Lazare  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Paris,  after  we  had  passed 
the  bridge  of  the  BatignoIIes,  was  not  very  attractive. 
Those  high  tenements — they  seemed  so  in  1878  as  com 
pared  with  houses  in  Philadelphia — on  either  side  of  the 
railroad  yards  are  still  to  be  seen;  each  time  I  return  to 
them  I  experience  the  same  sinking  of  the  heart.  That 
first  night  in  Paris  left  a  bad  taste  in  my  mouth;  perhaps 

218 


IN   PARIS  AT  LAST  219 

Havre  had  something  to  do  with  it.  I  had  attached  my 
self  to  one  of  the  families,  and  after  patrolling  the  grand 
boulevard  we  found  ourselves  as  far  as  the  Boulevard 
de  Sebastopol.  We  had  passed  through  the  Rue  St. 
Lazare  and,  naturally,  stopped  for  a  "  consommation " 
at  some  cafe  with  tables  on  the  street.  The  lights — 
electricity  was  coming  into  use,  the  Jablochkoff  lights  on 
the  Avenue  dTOpera  set  the  fashion — the  cleanliness  of 
the  establishment,  the  bustle  of  the  waiters  serving 
thirsty  people,  who  had  fresh  coloured  faces,  much  im 
pressed  me.  Even  then  I  noted  that  the  nation  had 
made  eating  and  drinking  human.  Sociability  was  ra 
tionalised.  The  drunken  man  abounds  on  the  globe 
but  less  in  Europe  than  elsewhere. 

Exhausted  by  the  terrible  noise,  the  horns  of  the  big 
buses,  I  followed  in  the  wake  of  my  comrades.  There 
were  halts,  hesitations,  and  tentative  sallies  into  cheap 
hotels.  We  all  had  an  address  "highly  recommended/' 
and  argued  at  corners  while  I,  like  one  of  those  dogs  that 
follows  a  mob  till  it  falls,  sat  on  my  valise  and  patiently 
waited.  Gendarmes  were  consulted  and  politely  showed 
us  various  lodging-houses.  This  amiability  on  the  part 
of  policemen  set  me  to  wondering.  Not  a  trace  of  hos 
tility  or  surliness.  It  was  "Monsieur,  par  ici !  Mon 
sieur,  par  la!"  as  the  men  of  our  party  wrangled  with 
their  wives.  My  French  I  had  already  discovered  on 
shipboard  was  not  the  language  spoken  in  France.  I 
understood  the  general  meaning  of  a  phrase,  which  I 
persisted  answering  in  a  loud  voice.  Our  business  was 
settled  by  the  diplomacy  of  a  hotel  proprietor  who  saw 
that  to  a  dozen  souls  he  could  make  concessions.  He 
diplomatically  invited  us  to  a  drink,  claret  in  bottles 
this  time,  and  the  ladies  said  that  he  was  "tres  gentil." 


220  STEEPLEJACK 

He  was.  He  was  also  a  common  or  garden  variety  of 
swindler  when  we  paid  our  bills  a  day  later.  I,  in  par 
ticular,  was  a  Iamb  led  to  the  shearing.  My  wool  was 
depleted.  Confused,  raging,  I  said  a  few  things  to  him 
that  astonished  my  companions,  who  understood  Ameri 
can  profanity.  Come,  come,  that's  too  strong !  The 
game  isn't  worth  the  candle.  Perhaps  we  are  in  the 
wrong.  Paris  is  much  more  expensive  than  in  1860! 
Thus  I  was  pacified  by  one  of  my  friends.  The  French 
stuck  to  their  countrymen.  I  had  been  robbed,  petty 
larceny  of  the  meanest  sort,  but,  after  all,  what  could  I 
expect?  I  was  only  a  Yankee!  Thoroughly  disgusted 
with  the  crowd  and  the  surroundings,  I  paid  the  bill, 
hailed  a  fiacre,  and  drove  to  Drexel,  Harjes  &  Cie.  I 
had  definitely  ruptured  with  the  fourth-class  and  had 
become  a  bourgeois  overnight. 

I  found  letters  at  the  bankers'.  Well-dressed  people 
read  newspapers  in  the  waiting-rooms.  The  place  wore 
a  hospitable  air.  I  was  with  my  own  race  once  more. 
My  letters  filled  me  with  joy.  Philadelphia  became  the 
pivot  of  the  planet.  I  saw  my  family  through  the  senti 
mental  haze  of  years;  twelve  days'  absence  seemed  a 
century.  Best  of  all,  for  I  was  a  pragmatist,  was  the 
command  of  the  Philadelphia  Drexel  house  to  pay  me  a 
certain  sum,  not  much,  but  a  "magot"  as  they  say. 
My  mother,  I  knew,  had  been  active  in  this  matter. 
I've  forgotten  my  first  evening  spent  in  Paris  with  the 
immigrants,  but  I  do  know  that  when  alone,  I  went  to 
the  Jardin  Mabille,  on  the  boulevard.  I  can  boast 
that  I  saw  the  last  of  that  famous  establishment  though 
it  was  dull  diversion.  During  the  Second  Empire  it 
had  entertained  the  world  with  its  wickedness.  I  searched 
with  the  ardour  and  curiosity  of  a  green  youth  for  that 


IN   PARIS  AT  LAST  221 

same  wickedness.  I  only  attended  its  obsequies.  A 
dozen  fat,  stale,  and  unfair  women  pranced  around  to  the 
noisy  music  of  a  band.  Offenbach  was  still  in  vogue, 
but  it  was  like  corked  champagne,  this  music.  The  men 
dancers  looked  like  professionals.  The  Latin  quarter 
masquerade  wouldn't  have  deceived  even  a  reader  of 
that  bogus  bohemian  romance,  Trilby.  But  Trilby  was 
unwritten,  I  was  young,  and  presently  I  was  sitting  before 
the  buffet  drinking  expensive  vintages  in  company  with 
an  accomplished  young  lady,  of  at  least  forty-five,  wear 
ing  a  blonde  wig  and  a  professional  grimace.  I  paid  for 
the  refreshment,  "Garcon,  deux  bocks!"  and  my  accent 
was  so  outlandish  that  M'lle  Claire — her  real  name,  she 
solemnly  assured  me — forced  me  to  repeat  phrases  so 
that  the  waiter  might  join  in  the  fun.  Wicked !  Why, 
the  dear  old  aunt  wasn't  as  wicked  as  a  village-pump. 
She  became  maternal  and  confidently  told  me  that  as 
a  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted,  I  had  better  go 
home  to  my  mamma.  My  vanity  wounded,  I  took  her 
advice,  tipped  the  waiter,  ordered  a  fresh  beer  for  Claire 
and,  bowing  in  my  best  Gallic  manner,  I  hastily  went 
away.  I  looked  back  as  I  turned  the  corner.  The  lady, 
the  waiter,  the  lady  cashier  at  the  desk,  were  staring  in 
my  direction.  They  were  not  jeering.  I  must  have 
impressed  them  as  something  so  indescribably  provincial 
that  they  held  their  breath.  And  I,  who  fancied  myself 
"rigolo"  with  my  Scotch  cap,  velveteen  coat,  flaring 
necktie,  low  collar,  baggy  breeches  !  Wasn't  I  the  picture 
of  a  Latin  quarter  student  or  artist?  I  had  read  Henri 
Murger's  Vie  de  Boheme,  and  believed  myself  the  real 
thing.  Alas  !  Claire  and  the  greedy  waiter  didn't  agree 
with  me,  and  my  guardian  angel  being  "on  the  job,"  I 
went  to  my  hotel  in  an  irritable  humour.  But  I  had  seen 


222 


STEEPLEJACK 


the  historical  Jardin  Mabille,  had  spoken  to  one  of  its 
houris,  and  instead  of  dazzling  wickedness,  I  had  been 
sent  away  with  a  sermon  in  my  ear.  In  this  individual 
case  Lecky  was  right  when  he  called  the  harlot  the  pro 
tector  of  the  home. 

The  next  morning  not  feeling  in  the  least  like  a  "brand 
plucked  from  the  burning,"  I  went  to  the  friends  of  my 
parents.  They  had  made  a  fortune  in  Philadelphia, 
first  in  the  sewing-machine  industry,  where  Mr.  Lefevre 
found  himself  an  associate  of  George  W.  Childs.  He 
was  one  of  the  early  fashionable  dressmakers  of  the  town, 
and  his  imported  Worth  gowns  brought  him  fame  and 
money.  In  1878  he  returned  with  his  wife — an  adorable 
Frenchwoman — and  children  to  Paris  and  lived  up  in 
the  Quarter  of  Europe,  which  is  at  the  top  of  the  Rue  de 
Rome,  and  close  to  the  boulevards,  BatignoIIes  and 
Clichy.  I  was  received  with  open  arms.  Letters  had 
evidently  preceded  me.  My  education  was  taken  in 
hand  and  I  was  not  allowed  to  speak  English,  so  I  spent 
the  day  mumbling  my  Broad  Street  Academy  French. 
Mr.  Lefevre,  one  of  those  natty  Parisians,  white-bearded 
and  insouciant,  who  are  gay  at  four-score — he  wasn't 
much  over  sixty — first  showed  me  the  town.  But  he 
was  less  interested  in  the  architecture,  statues,  the  Louvre, 
or  Cluny,  than  in  the  passing  crowd.  He  was  a  seasoned 
inhabitant  and  registered  many  nuances  for  me  in  moral 
and  physical  Paris.  I  learned  not  only  classes  and  masses, 
but  salient  characteristics  of  the  day  and  night  life.  We 
went  all  over  the  city.  I  became  a  cockney,  a  "badaud." 
I  knew  both  sides  of  the  river,  the  exterior  boulevards, 
the  faubourgs.  Above  all,  I  became  intimately  ac 
quainted  with  the  interior  of  churches.  The  Lefevres 
were  religious.  Every  day  I  was  trotted  to  church,  and 


IN   PARIS  AT  LAST  223 

as  every  other  day  is  Saint's  day  in  France,  I  often  went 
to  High  Mass.  At  first  it  was  St.  Augustin,  then  the 
Trinity.  I  compromised  on  a  chapel  in  the  vicinity,  St. 
Marie  des  BatignoIIes.  I  hadn't  come  to  Paris  for  its 
piety.  The  enforced  visits,  confessions,  and  other  com 
mendable  practices  were  irksome,  in  the  end,  and  I  re 
belled.  The  Lefevre  family  moved  to  the  country,  and 
I  was  left  to  my  own  devices,  though  I  gladly  visited 
them  at  Villiers-Ie-Bel,  on  the  northern  railroad.  Ma 
dame  Lefevre  was  solicitous  about  the  state  of  my  soul; 
she  had  promised  my  mother  to  look  after  me,  when,  if 
the  truth  be  told,  my  soul  wasn't  worth  the  powder  to 
blow  it  to  Halifax.  I  kicked  over  the  traces  and  deter 
mined  to  "live  my  own  life,"  as  they  say  in  Ibsen  plays. 
And  a  nice  mess  I  made  of  matters. 


Ill 

THE  MAISON  BERNARD 

As  I  only  had  a  small  allowance  I  could  not  live  where 
I  should  have  lived.  It  was  Mr.  Lefevre  who  found  me 
lodging  in  an  old  barracks  on  the  Rue  Puteaux,  No.  5, 
off  the  BatignoIIes  boulevard.  It  was  kept  by  a  dwarf 
hunchback  with  flaming  eyes  and  tumbled  hair.  The 
house  was  not  inviting  in  aspect  or  cleanliness.  I  was 
assigned  a  small  chamber  on  the  top  floor,  fifth  story. 
The  room  barely  accommodated  a  bed,  wash-stand, 
armoire,  the  glass  of  which  filled  me  with  pride,  my 
modest  clothes,  and  a  tiny  upright  piano,  made  by  an 
Alsatian  manufacturer,  I  think  Kriegelstein  was  the 
name.  Later  a  second-hand  stove  was  bought  and  I 
was  in  daily  danger  of  burning  the  house  down  when  I 
made  a  fire — really  a  big  smoke  and  a  roaring  sound  of 
flames  for  ten  minutes.  I  ranged  my  few  precious  books 
on  the  sill  of  my  solitary  window.  I  looked  over  a  gar 
den,  and  the  usual  array  of  chimney-pots.  The  climate 
was  then,  as  it  always  is,  abominable  in  Paris.  Gay  Paris 
is  a  figment  of  fiction  writers.  The  gaiety  is  in  the  hearts 
of  the  inhabitants,  not  in  the  leaden  skies.  The  cold  of 
winter  is  more  penetrating  than  ours,  because  it  is  damp, 
because  the  sun  seldom  shines,  because  houses  are  not 
heated  as  in  America.  Rain  is  the  daily  programme. 
Fall  and  winter  are  always  wet.  Spring  is  the  best 
period,  for  summer,  notwithstanding  the  popular  belief 
to  the  contrary,  is  hot,  sticky,  and  uncomfortable,  all  the 
more  so  since  baths  are  for  the  well-to-do.  Forty  years 

224 


THE  MAISON   BERNARD  225 

ago  this  was  the  rule.  The  old  apartments  had  no  con 
veniences.  I  paid  the  munificent  sum  of  fifteen  francs  a 
week  for  my  room,  and  as  my  income  didn't  go  higher  than 
five  francs  a  day  I  hadn't  much  left.  Indeed,  a  period  of 
hardship  set  in.  I  was  to  learn  the  exact  value  of  five 
centimes,  and  how  to  make  that  amount  go  as  far  as 
possible.  I  forgot  to  say  that  bed-linen  was  not  included  in 
my  weekly  rental.  The  landlord,  whose  name  was  Ber 
nard,  was  an  Alsatian,  and  lived  in  the  house.  He  sup 
plied  wine  and  table-board  to  his  lodgers.  At  first  I  ate 
at  cheap  restaurants,  gargottes,  places  frequented  by 
coachmen,  workmen,  or  in  wine  houses  where  for  a  fixed 
price  you  were  given  a  copious  bouillon — I  don't  think  the 
Duval  establishments  were  then  in  existence — boiled  beef 
and  carrots,  one  potato,  and  a  big  bottle  of  cheap  wine 
for  the  sum  of  one  franc.  Those  were  not  expensive  times. 
France  was  rapidly  recovering  from  the  shock  of  the 
war  with  Prussia,  and  prosperity  filled  hearts  with  hope. 
In  my  new  home  there  was  an  old  couple,  the  Grand- 
jeans,  he  a  retired  functionary,  living  on  a  small  pension, 
she,  after  a  half  century  of  petty  economies  and  married 
life,  a  brave  and  devoted  wife.  They  had  one  pleasure 
left.  On  Sundays  they  dined  "en  ville"  with  their  son 
and  his  family.  They  were  very  proud  of  him.  He,  too, 
was  a  government  employee,  who  bid  fair  to  tread  in  the 
snail  trail  of  his  father.  One  thing  disquieted  the  worthy 
pair.  Their  son  had  two  children,  the  regulation  num 
ber  of  a  French  household;  it  was  the  prospect  of  addi 
tions  that  made  the  grandmother  unhappy.  "Ah !  Mon 
sieur,"  she  would  say  to  me  on  the  landing  when  we  got 
our  water-supply,  "my  daughter-in-law  is  again  a  troubled 
woman."  Another  mouth  to  feed.  I  was  duly  sympa 
thetic.  On  Sundays  they  would  mount  the  long  flight 


226  STEEPLEJACK 

of  stairs  at  nine  o'clock,  and  I  could  tell  from  their  up 
ward  march  whether  matters  had  gone  awry.  Please 
don't  think  I  was  a  Paul  Pry,  "snooping"  about  my 
neighbours'  affairs;  the  truth  is  I  left  my  door  open  to 
get  more  liberty,  as  I  was  in  narrow  quarters.  I  usually 
finished  dressing  in  the  hall.  When  I  played  more  than 
ten  hours  a  day  on  the  tinpan  piano,  I  was  reminded  that 
other  people  had  their  rights  by  a  volley  of  old  shoes, 
or  loud  cries  of  "get  out,"  and  such  expressions  of  dis 
pleasure.  I  was  too  superior,  too  absorbed,  to  bother 
with  these  unmusical  persons.  The  Grandjeans  were 
politer.  Madame  told  me  that  my  practice  made  her 
dream  of  the  siege  when  the  Prussians  bombarded  the 
city.  I  thanked  her. 

I  went  on  long  walks  with  her  husband,  who  escorted 
me  to  the  Pantheon,  the  Invalides,  the  Tuileries,  all  the 
public  buildings  and  monuments.  One  afternoon,  after 
I  had  seen  the  reparations  of  the  Tuileries,  I  asked  how 
long  it  had  been  before  the  Prussians  evacuated  Paris. 
"Ah !  young  man,"  and  he  mournfully  shook  his  venera 
ble  hand,  "the  boches  didn't  do  all  that  mischief.  I  re 
gret  to  say  it  was  our  own  people,  the  communards." 

Music  was  my  chief  pleasure.  Hunger  was  also  a  focal- 
point  in  my  consciousness.  I  was  not  in  actual  want, 
and  with  the  exercise  of  a  little  prudence  I  had  enough 
to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  back  door;  but  he  gnawed  at 
my  vitals,  and  not  boasting  Spartan  fortitude,  I  was 
usually  famished  the  last  week  of  the  month  because  I 
spent  my  allowance  too  soon.  I  ate  so  much  at  the  little 
wine  house  that  the  woman  who  ran  the  place  insinu 
atingly  said:  "Monsieur  perhaps  is  suffering  from  a 
tape\vorm."  It  was  merely  a  delicate  hint  that  I  must 
not  exceed  my  privilege  of  more  than  a  yard  of  bread  at 


THE  MAISON  BERNARD  227 

a  meal,  a  thing  difficult  to  do;  Paris  bread  in  long  sticks 
is  appetising.  Those  few  days  of  the  month,  how  they 
tested  my  stomach  !  I  could  have  gone  to  the  Lefevres, 
but  the  railway  fares  cost  too  much,  and  then  I  had  a 
few  sparks  of  pride  left  in  me.  I  repeated  the  words  of 
Turenne,  but  they  weren't  very  filling:  "Thou  tremblest, 
carcass!"  Many  afternoons  I  remained  in  bed  with  a 
heavy  volume  of  Chopin's  music  on  my  stomach.  It  was 
a  lazy  equivalent  for  the  belt  strapped  in.  I  had  my 
chocolate,  I  smoked  and  I  read.  An  unsatisfactory  pro 
ceeding  this  one  full  meal  a  day,  yet  I  worked,  walked, 
was  fairly  content.  Youth !  The  hunchback  proprietor 
was  kind.  Occasionally,  after  I  had  paid  my  rent  with 
approximate  punctuality,  he  would  invite  me  to  dejeuner 
at  noon,  a  royal  feast.  I  never  refused  him.  At  his 
table  I  met  a  queer  crew,  chiefly  Alsatians.  German  and 
French  were  spoken  without  prejudice,  barring  the  pro 
vincial  accent.  There  were  a  half-dozen  couples,  young 
people,  who,  not  securing  their  parents'  consent,  had  left 
home  with  their  sweethearts  and  lived  in  Paris  until 
they  reached  the  age  of  twenty-five,  when  they  could 
marry.  And  some  of  them  did.  No  one  was  scandalised. 
They  were  all  hard-working,  fairly  sober,  and  the  men 
had  the  courage  of  their  concubines.  "We  are  too  poor 
to  marry,"  one  of  them,  a  house  painter,  informed  me. 
They  were  devoted  to  their  partners,  and  the  monotonies 
of  married  life  were  much  in  evidence.  Even  in  the 
atmospheric  adulteries  of  the  Henry  James  novels  one 
may  trace  the  platitudes  of  matrimony.  To  all  intents 
and  purposes  these  peasants,  transplanted  in  Paris,  were 
as  securely  bound  together  as  if  church  and  state  had  been 
invoked  in  the  matter. 

But  after  I  had  lived  a  winter  with  them  I  detected 


228  STEEPLEJACK 

rifts  in  their  domestic  lutes.  Papa  Bernard  was  mar 
ried  to  a  midwife  who  conducted  her  establishment  across 
the  Seine.  She  promptly  appeared  at  dinner  time, 
seven  o'clock,  possibly  to  look  the  boarders  over.  She 
had  a  ferocious  eye  for  business.  Her  husband  was  hen 
pecked;  there  was  a  reason.  Every  afternoon  he  had  a 
habit  of  disappearing.  I  would  keep  house,  enjoying 
the  snugness  and  warmth  of  the  dining-room  where  there 
was  a  battered  upright  piano.  After  the  maid-of-all- 
work,  a  disreputable  young  female,  would  clear  the  table 
and  go  to  her  cupboard,  there  to  wash  the  dishes  and 
troll  out  some  obscene  song  she  had  heard  in  company 
with  her  little  soldier  while  walking  around  the  fortifica 
tions,  I  would  play  to  drown  her  voice.  Bernard,  after 
enduring  the  noise,  would  take  off  his  wooden  sabots 
and  in  his  slippers  would  steal  up-stairs,  first  placing  an 
index  finger  on  his  nose  in  a  significant  way,  as  one 
should  say:  Watch,  wait,  tell  my  wife  I've  gone  out! 
Once  the  midwife  came  in  unexpectedly.  Luckily,  I  was 
not  there.  The  row  that  ensued  must  have  been  terrific. 
One  young  couple  left  the  house  the  next  morning.  I 
feared  to  ask  the  reason.  M.  Bernard  also  drank. 

But  I  didn't  always  dine  luxuriously.  I  continued  to 
rove  and  forage,  and  as  that  noble  American  institution, 
free-lunch,  was  unknown,  I  had  little  to  spare  when  rent 
day  arrived.  One  night  a  fellow-lodger  took  me  to  the 
Halles,  the  central  markets,  and  after  a  tour  through 
the  labyrinths,  which  Zola  faithfully  describes  in  Le 
Ventre  de  Paris,  he  showed  me  a  trick  that  I  shall  never 
forget.  We  found  ourselves  behind  one  of  the  halls, 
with  a  dozen  vagabonds,  one  in  shabby  evening  dress 
and  top-boots-  but  bare-headed,  mostly  human  wrecks, 


THE  MAISON   BERNARD  229 

drunkards  and  outlaws  from  society.  They  were  in 
jolly  mood,  evidently  cognac  of  the  worst  sort  was  in 
their  veins.  They  were  hungry.  Like  a  band  of  wolves 
we  watched  a  big  cauldron  over  a  fire,  in  which  sim 
mered  a  mass  of  meat  and  vegetables,  the  scourings  of 
the  butcher's  block  and  huckster's  droppings.  Fire  and 
water  are  purifying,  and  this  indescribable  olla-podrida 
fumed  and  bubbled  and  sent  to  our  nostrils  a  most  tempt 
ing  odour.  A  human  hog  in  rags  stirred  the  pot-au-feu 
with  a  baton  fit  for  a  wash  boiler.  As  he  stirred  he 
hoarsely  chanted:  "One  cent  a  try,  one  cent  only." 
The  trial  was  this:  as  the  whirling  mass  tossed  up  frag 
ments  of  flesh,  hunks  of  fat,  potatoes,  or  carrots,  you 
jabbed  at  them  with  a  long  wooden  fork,  and  what  you 
prodded  on  the  prongs  was  yours.  Only  one  cent.  It 
would  have  been  amusing  if  it  hadn't  been  horrible. 
The  gambling  instinct,  as  well  as  hunger,  was  appealed  to, 
and  the  low  price  proved  an  irresistible  combination. 
I  found  it  so.  I  speared  like  my  neighbours  and  had 
fair  luck,  a  lump  of  veal,  which  I  ate  with  good  appetite. 
No  bread.  No  wine.  These  we  found  across  the  street. 
I  never  returned  to  this  slop-bucket  lottery. 

It  wasn't  necessary,  my  prospects  were  decidedly 
brightening.  I  sent  a  letter  to  the  Philadelphia  Evening 
Bulletin,  and  it  was  printed  through  the  intermediacy  of 
Ferdinand  Fetherston.  It  was  dated  from  Paris,  No 
vember  14,  1878.  The  banal  letter  of  a  young  writer, 
beginning:  "Paris!  beautiful  Paris!"  with  lots  of  gasps 
and  exclamation  points.  These  weekly  letters  lasted  till 
the  following  summer.  They  were  edited  by  my  mother, 
who  wrote  a  pure,  flowing  English,  as  her  writings  tell 
me.  I  was  in  the  torturing  grip  of  Carlyle  then,  and  my 
contorted  prose  shadowed  his  excesses.  My  mother 


23o  STEEPLEJACK 

warned  me  against  this  aping  of  a  great  man's  style,  and, 
no  doubt,  would  have  approved  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
advice  to  Frederic  Harrison:  "Flee  Carlylese  as  the 
very  devil."  I  didn't  and  concocted  tortuous  phrases 
to  my  heart's  content.  Newman  was  upheld  as  a  model 
of  grace  and  limpidity,  but  it  was  too  early  for  the  great 
cardinal  and  prose-master.  However,  there  was  no  great 
trace  of  the  fuliginous  Carlyle  in  these  letters.  To  be 
frank,  I  think  I  wrote  with  more  simplicity  than  now. 
Life  has  intervened.  The  same  preoccupation  with  the 
arts  may  be  found,  also  the  same  speed,  vocabulary,  and 
lack  of  sequence.  We  change  less  than  we  think,  and  the 
child  is  sometimes  more  sincere  than  the  man.  The 
best  thing  about  this  new  connection  was  the  five  dollars 
it  brought  with  each  contribution.  Twenty-five  francs ! 
And  remember  that  four  decades  ago  in  Paris,  this  amount 
almost  equalled  twenty-five  dollars  in  purchasing  power. 
I  was  a  nabob  when  my  monthly  cheque  arrived.  I 
would  stroll  into  Drexel's  after  a  glorious  banquet  con 
sisting  of  Chateaubriand  beefsteak — the  French  are  loyal 
to  their  poets  and  celebrities,  not  to  mention  war  vic 
tories;  think  of  La  Pompadour,  of  Madame  Recamier, 
Sauce  a  la  Marengo,  Mazagran  of  coffee — this  from  a  siege 
in  Algiers — and  other  soups,  gowns,  corsets,  and  desserts 
— washed  down  with  Burgundy,  together  with  radishes 
and  butter,  Brussels  sprouts,  cheese  and  Mocha.  How 
I  swaggered  home  and  boasted  of  my  dejeuner !  I  gave 
up  the  cheaper  restaurants  and  ate  at  the  liberal  table  of 
Papa  Bernard,  where  I  was  received  with  the  peculiar 
consideration  accorded  newly-acquired  riches. 


IV 
MADAME  BEEFSTEAK 

Then  I  fell  in  love.  Not  a  novelty,  but  each  new  girl 
creates  that  illusion.  It  was  hardly  a  "grande  passion," 
this  infatuation,  only  the  reactions  of  two  young  persons 
thrown  together  at  a  common  place,  a  Parisian  table 
d'hote.  Contiguity  breeds  familiarity.  I  sat  next  to 
a  handsome  girl  of  twenty,  a  girl  who  had  been  a  bonne. 
She  wore  the  white  cap  of  a  servant,  and  behaved  with 
the  utmost  circumspection.  She  lived  in  a  hall-room  on 
the  floor  below  me,  and  had  as  a  companion  a  nasty 
yapping  dog  which  she  petted  and  called  "P-pauI"  after 
Paul  de  Cassagnac,  then  in  the  public  eye  as  a  publicist, 
politician,  and  duellist.  P-pauI  hated  me.  I  loathed 
the  brute,  which  sat  on  the  lap  of  his  mistress  at  table. 
Whenever  I  spoke  to  the  young  woman  I  heard  a  growl. 
Nevertheless,  I  talked  and  she  listened,  fascinated  by  my 
fluent  and  fearful  French.  An  intimacy  followed.  She 
was  the  only  unattached  female  in  the  house.  Of  her 
antecedents  I  knew  little.  She  told  me  that  her  bap 
tismal  name  was  Coralie;  that's  all.  M.  Bernard  would 
slyly  smile  at  us,  the  boarders  took  our  friendship  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Yet  we  never  met  except  at  the  mid 
day-breakfast  and  at  dinner.  Even  Mother  Bernard, 
with  her  beak  of  a  bird  of  prey  would  regard  us  with  a 
shrewd  eye.  Heaven  knows  why !  She  may  have  been 
anticipating  future  events.  So  platonic  was  my  inter 
course  with  Coralie  that  when  I  innocently  invited  her 
to  hear  a  little  music — sitting  in  the  hall,  be  it  under- 

231 


232  STEEPLEJACK 

stood,  as  my  room  wasn't  large  enough  for  two — she  re 
fused  rather  testily  I  thought,  telling  me  that  M.  Bernard 
was  very  strict  regarding  the  morals  of  his  household— 
the  infernal  hypocrite ! — but  couldn't  we  take  a  little 
promenade  some  afternoon?  Now,  suspicious  reader, 
you  must  not  imagine  anything  wicked.  Those  guilty 
asterisks  *  *  *  much  admired  by  novelists  and  suggest 
ing  naughtiness,  I  shall  not  use,  for  the  reason  that  we 
never  promenaded.  It  wasn't  necessary.  I  disliked  her 
animal,  and  the  only  time  she  went  out  of  doors  was  to 
give  P-paul  necessary  exercise.  Her  eyes — Coralie's— 
were  large  and  like  hard-boiled  eggs.  She  had  a  well- 
shaped  head,  regular  features,  scarlet  lips  and  tiny  ears. 
Small  ears  are  the  shepherd's  warning  morning  or  even 
ing.  In  a  woman  they  spell  selfishness,  and  a  selfish  man 
should  never  marry  a  woman  like  himself.  This  I  told 
myself  as  I  looked  at  Coralie.  Uselessly,  for  I  lost  my 
head  and  made  love  to  her.  My  tactics  were  simple.  I 
had  observed  her  fondness  for  rare  beefsteak,  an  unusual 
taste  in  a  Frenchwoman.  I  treated  her  every  day  to 
beefsteak.  It  went  on  my  bill,  and  the  bone  belonged  to 
the  dog.  Soon  I  paid  for  her  dejeuner,  but  halted  there. 
She  hinted  at  hard  luck,  at  dinners  not  within  the  compass 
of  her  purse.  I  was  obdurate.  Had  I  not  grazed  star 
vation?  All  went  well  till  spring.  Then  I  experienced 
a  surprise. 

The  family  had  nicknamed  her  Madame  Bifsteck,  be 
cause  of  her  carnivorous  propensity,  and  by  consequence 
I  was  called  Monsieur  Beefsteak.  The  dog  remained 
plain  dog  till  his  next  sausage — karma.  With  warmer 
weather  my  stove  became  an  impediment;  because  of  it 
I  was  forced  to  put  on  my  shirt  in  the  hall.  A  burst  of 


MADAME  BEEFSTEAK  233 

generosity  made  me  offer  it  to  Madame  Bifsteck.  Her 
eyes  shone  like  glorious  lamps.  I  was  assured  that  she 
loved  me.  I  paid  for  another  rare  steak.  We  were 
almost  happy.  And  then  came  the  disagreeable  surprise. 
One  evening,  after  dinner,  as  we  sipped  our  liqueurs,  a 
burly  coachman  entered,  whip  in  hand,  and  saluted  the 
company.  A  swift  exchange  of  glances.  "It's  her  hus 
band,"  some  one  whispered  to  me.  "Le  mari!"  that 
name  consecrated  by  melodrama.  My  Coralie's  husband  ! 
Horrible.  He  was  nearly  seven  feet  high,  weighed  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  at  least,  wore  the  capes  and 
glazed  high  hat  of  his  profession,  and  also  the  professional 
red  mug.  He  was  drunk,  indeed,  was  never  sober,  and  odd 
to  relate,  when  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  I  expected 
to  hear  a  rich  Irish  brogue,  so  much  like  a  Dublin  jaunt 
ing-car  driver  did  he  look.  But  he  spoke  French  mixed 
with  the  argot  of  the  quarter.  An  awe-inspiring  creature. 
I  had  been  sitting  with  my  arm  around  the  waist  of 
Coralie,  having  lulled  the  jealousy  of  P-paul  with  a  bone. 
Unostentatiously  I  withdrew  this  incriminating  arm  when 
I  learned  the  title  of  the  stranger.  What !  Had  my 
Coralie  Bifsteck  fooled  me  all  along?  Oh,  grass  where  is 
thy  greenness?  Oh,  beef  where  is  thy  price?  I  didn't 
have  an  opportunity  to  ponder  the  situation.  The  big 
devil  looked  at  me  and  to  my  terror  strode — yes,  he  had 
plenty  of  stride — towards  me.  "Ah,  Monsieur  Stove, 
it's  you?  Embrace  your  papa,  young  man!"  He  held 
me  in  a  grip  of  steel.  Mr.  Stove!  What  did  he  mean? 
I  had  been  saluted  as  Beefsteak,  never  as  Stove.  His 
bear-like  hug  nearly  smothered  me,  I  was  hopelessly  out 
classed  from  the  start.  The  audience  tittered,  but  soon 
became  silent.  It  was  to  be  serious !  Suddenly  after  a 
volley  of  objurgations,  I  was  tripped  up  and  found  my- 


234  STEEPLEJACK 

self  across  his  knees,  and  next  to  his  "wife."  She  placidly 
stared,  like  a  cow  in  a  thunder-shower.  Then  I  was 
ignominiously  spanked,  spanked  as  my  father  never 
dreamed  of  spanking  me.  The  family  roared  with 
laughter.  The  Bernards  only  smiled.  It  was  a  joke ! 
This  M.  Stove  was  such  a  funny  fellow !  At  the  word 
Stove  ("la  poele")  the  gaiety  redoubled. 

I  didn't  feel  much  like  a  hero  when  I  was  set  on  my 
feet,  my  hair  mussed,  my  eye  blinking.  But  I  hadn't 
seen — how  could  I,  face  down? — the  series  of  winks 
bestowed  on  the  spectators.  M.  Bifsteck,  to  give  him 
a  name,  was  as  jovial  a  pirate  as  one  could  meet  cruising 
about  that  most  adventurous  of  seas,  the  streets  of 
Paris.  We  became  friends  before  the  evening  ended. 
I  forgave  his  horse-laugh  (also  professional)  and  his 
coarse  unpleasantry,  but  the  attitude  of  his  "wife"  dis 
gusted  me.  She  was  no  longer  Madame  Bifsteck,  only 
the  slave  of  the  man  who  paid  her  lodging.  She  nestled 
to  him,  provocatively  staring  at  me.  No  use.  The 
spell  was  broken.  All's  unfair  in  love  or  war;  but  her 
unfairness  went  a  step  in  the  wrong  direction.  Much 
cheap  claret  was  consumed.  The  "cocher"  kissed  me 
on  both  cheeks.  I  preferred  the  spanking  to  the  odour  of 
onions  and  bad  brandy.  The  next  morning  I  missed  my 
wallet  and  one  hundred  francs.  I  didn't  feel  particularly 
well  and  this  loss  sent  my  heart  down  into  my  boots.  I 
raised  the  roof.  I  threatened  to  call  in  the  police. 
Then  it  came  to  me  that  I  had  hidden  with  preposterous 
caution  the  money  in  the  closet  where  I  found  it.  I 
apologised  in  customary  fashion  to  Bernard,  and  over 
our  cordials  he  told  me  that  the  coachman  had  suspected 
his  partner  after  my  gift  of  the  stove.  Beefsteaks  didn't 
count.  It  was  the  riotous  extravagance  manifested  by 


MADAME   BEEFSTEAK  235 

that  cheap  stove  transaction.  I  was  advised  quietly  to 
change  my  address.  This  suited  me.  The  city  was 
warm.  I  was  weary  of  Coralie — suddenly — and  the  next 
day  I  was  en  route  for  the  country.  Coralie  insisted  on 
accompanying  me  to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  holding  my 
hand,  and  at  times,  when  P-paul  permitted,  tenderly  pat 
ting  my  head.  She  had  the  limpid,  luminous  eyes  of  the 
born  liar,  yet  she  was  simple  and  confiding.  It  wasn't 
her  husband  that  worried  her  as  much  as  her  jealous 
dog.  Whenever  I  tried  to  kiss  her  he  snapped  at  my 
nose,  did  this  canine  guardian  of  the  household  honour. 
A  kill-joy,  a  hateful  hound,  he  barked  to  the  very  last 
when,  with  streaming  eyes  and  to  the  evident  appro 
bation  of  railroad  porters  and  boys,  we  kissed  our  fare 
well.  Dear  Coralie !  Dear  Madame  Bifsteck !  We 
were  once  young  and  loving.  Beefless  days  must  have 
overtaken  you !  Perhaps  you  married  your  drunken 
coachman.  Adieu !  But  I  hope  that  infernal  P-paul 
went  to  his  dogged  reward. 


V 
THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN 

Paris  is  a  beautiful  book,  a  book  of  ivory,  gold  and 
irony;  a  book  that  stirs  the  soul  as  it  stirs  the  senses. 
Paris  is  a  cloaca,  the  lupanar  of  the  world  where  the 
vilest  meets  the  vile.  Paris,  like  Rome,  gives  you  pre 
cisely  what  you  bring  to  it.  I  have  never  had  patience 
with  the  people  who  call  Paris  the  City  of  Pleasure,  as 
if  it  were  not  also  the  City  of  Work.  Every  aggregation 
of  humans  has  its  so-called  pleasures,  painful  pleasures 
for  the  most  part.  Paris  is  simply  the  capital  of  the 
civilised  world,  and  must  pay  the  penalty  for  its  pre 
eminence.  It  is  the  modern  Scarlet  Woman  in  the  eyes 
of  ignorant  prudes,  and  Montmartre  is  one  of  the  Seven 
Hills  of  vice.  But  on  Montmartre  is  enthroned  the 
Church  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  God's  hired  man  is  work 
ing  without  wage  in  Paris  as  in  London  or  Pekin.  In 
1867,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Exposition,  when  Glory  and 
France  were  synonymous,  and  to  the  music,  cynical  and 
voluptuous,  of  Offenbach  and  Johann  Strauss,  the  world 
enjoyed  itself,  as  it  enjoyed  applauding  Renan's  latest 
book,  or  Theresa's  vulgarity;  amused  by  Ponson  de 
TerraiFs  fatuous  indecencies  while  speaking  in  the  same 
breath  of  the  philosophical  anarch,  Joseph  Proudhon. 
Bismarck  and  the  Prussians  seemed  far  away.  Babel 
or  Pompeii?  The  tower  of  the  Second  Empire  reached 
to  the  clouds;  below,  the  people  danced  on  the  edge  of 
the  crumbling  crater.  Jeremiah  walked  in  the  gardens. 
He  was  a  terrible  man,  with  sombre,  fatricidal  gaze,  eyes 

236 


THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN  237 

in  which  were  smothered  fires  of  hatred.  His  thin  hair 
waved  in  the  wind.  He  said  to  his  friends:  " I  come  from 
the  Tuileries  Palace.  It  is  not  yet  consumed.  The 
Barbarians  delay  their  coming.  What  is  Attila  doing?" 
He  passed.  "A  madman!"  exclaimed  a  companion  to 
Henri  Lasserre.  "He  is  Ernest  Hello."  It  was  the  im 
passioned  polemist,  prophet,  and  patriot.  The  disquiet 
ing  figure  is  evoked  of  that  son  of  Hanan,  who  prowled 
the  streets  of  the  Holy  City,  in  the  year  62  A.  D.,  crying 
aloud:  "Woe,  Woe  upon  Jerusalem!"  The  prophecy 
of  Hello  was  realised.  Attila  came,  Attila  went.  Seven 
years  later  I  saw  his  handiwork,  and  the  handiwork  of 
the  Parisian  Bolsheviki  of  1871,  the  Communists  and 
those  hags  of  hell,  the  petroleuses.  The  Red  Virgin, 
Louise  Michel,  was  still  living,  and  in  the  faubourgs, 
memories  of  the  burning  and  sacking  of  the  city  were 
green,  and  memories,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  grateful  to  many. 

But  in  1878  there  were  compensations  for  the  sadly 
afflicted  people.  The  Exposition  was  a  rallying-point. 
It  was  the  first  public  expression  of  liberation  since  the 
war.  Paris  breathed.  Paris  smiled.  An  enchanted  city 
for  me.  Each  street  had  its  history.  Fresh  from  the 
Centennial  Exposition  I  could  make  comparisons.  In 
all  that  pertained  to  invention,  to  machinery,  to  the  arts 
industrial,  Philadelphia  led,  but  in  the  gracious  arts, 
painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  architecture,  Paris  was, 
as  ever,  peerless.  (I  loathe  this  word,  it  sounds  like  a 
baking-powder  advertisement,  yet  I  can  think  of  none 
better.)  Peerless  Paris !  I  discovered  that  my  patri 
otism,  at  best  a  tender  plant  in  my  native  hothouse,  had 
suddenly  pushed  strong  sprouts.  For  the  first  time  I 
really  saw  our  flag;  my  heart  beat  as  it  blew  from  the 


238  STEEPLEJACK 

Trocadero.  The  American  Section  filled  me  with  pride, 
but  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in  the  art  Salons.  In  Phila 
delphia  we  had  raved  over  the  huge  panoramic  canvas  of 
Hans  Markart,  "The  Triumph  of  Caterina  Cornaro," 
the  art  of  the  theatrical  scene-painter.  In  the  Trocadero 
were  assembled  all  that  was  exquisite  in  contemporary 
art.  And  at  the  Louvre  I  completed  my  education  be 
gun  in  Black  and  White,  with  colour  hitherto  sadly  neg 
lected. 

Jules  Grevy  was  the  political  idol  of  the  day.  His  face 
was  to  be  seen  in  every  shop-window.  Gambetta  shared 
honours  with  him.  I  remember  one  cartoon  entitled 
"The  End  of  a  Bad  Dream,"  depicting  Grevy  and  Gam 
betta  clasping  hands,  while  in  the  background  Marshal 
MacMahon  and  others  are  seen  flying  away.  Gambetta, 
one-eyed,  as  Jewish-looking  as  a  rabbi — he  had  been 
called  Jew,  though  I  noticed  that  many  men  from  the 
South  are  Jewish-looking;  Alphonse  Daudet,  for  exam 
ple,  whose  real  name  was  David,  a  true  meridional — and 
burly  and  bourgeois  I  saw  Victor  Hugo,  who  had  ascended 
the  final  ladder  of  glory  awaiting  only  the  apotheosis  of 
death,  which  came  a  few  years  later.  I  saw  him  a  half- 
dozen  times,  a  commonplace  old  gentleman  with  a  white 
clipped  beard,  and  the  inevitable  umbrella  of  the  prudent 
Parisian  citizen.  He  usually  rode  on  the  top  of  an  omni 
bus,  and  was  always  saluted  by  bared  heads.  "It's  M. 
Hugo,  great  poet,"  whispered  a  conductor  as  the  great 
Frenchman  nimbly  mounted  to  the  imperiale.  This 
fighter,  who  had  helped  with  his  mighty  pen  the  down 
fall  of  that  stuffed-dummy  Emperor  and  bastard  Bona 
parte,  Napoleon  III,  was  not  forgotten  by  his  country 
men.  His  eyes  alone  proclaimed  the  fire  of  genius. 
They  burnt  in  his  head  like  lamps.  I  was  not  so  lucky 


THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN  239 

as  George  Moore,  who  shook  hands  with  Turgenev,  or 
as  Henry  James,  who  knew  the  lovable  Russian  novelist; 
but  I  once  saw  him,  as  I  saw  Guy  de  Maupassant  at  the 
Cafe  Sylvain  across  the  street  from  the  new  opera  house. 
Guy  was  as  burly  then  as  Gambetta.  He  was  sipping 
a  bock.  A  more  uninteresting  young  man  you  couldn't 
encounter  in  a  day's  walk.  My  most  cherished  recol 
lection  is  the  glimpse  I  had  of  Gustave  Flaubert,  huge, 
a  veritable  Viking,  with  the  long,  drooping  mustache 
of  a  trooper,  and  big  blue  eyes  in  a  large  red  face.  A 
magnificent  man.  He  was  hurrying  through  the  Rue 
Saint-Lazare,  possibly  on  his  way  to  the  gare  and  Rouen. 
My  old  friend  M.  Grandjean,  pointed  him  out,  but  while 
I  had  read  Madame  Bovary,  the  sight  of  Paul  de  Cassag- 
nac,  swaggering  behind  Flaubert,  arrested  my  attention. 
The  duellist  and  notorious  politician  was  surrounded 
by  a  flock  of  sycophants  who  owned  the  sidewalk.  Soli 
tary,  his  brain  filled  with  dreams,  Flaubert  went  his  way. 
The  reigning  painters  in  1878  were  Meissonier,  Carolus- 
Duran,  Bouguereau,  Jules  Lefebvre,  Cabanel — whose 
Venus  painted  with  a  brush  dipped  in  soft  soap  may  be 
seen  smiling  on  a  couch  of  sea-foam  at  the  Philadelphia 
Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts  here — Leon  Bonnat,  Paul 
Baudry,  Laurens,  Delaunay,  Henner,  Gerome,  and  Henri 
Regnault;  all  men  of  the  Institute,  though  the  unhappy 
Regnault,  his  life  lost  through  a  spent  bullet  during  the 
last  days  of  the  war  at  Buzenval,  was  considered  a  violent 
rebel.  However,  his  " Moorish  Execution,"  and  his 
"Salome"  reveal  him  as  a  conventional  Orientalist.  But 
the  others,  they  ruled  artistic  Paris.  Edouard  Manet, 
Claude  Monet,  and  a  few  brave  men  had  exhibited  at  the 
Salon  des  Refuses  in  1867  an  invention  of  the  Emperor, 
who,  stunned  by  the  clamour,  instituted  this  gallery  of 


240  STEEPLEJACK 

the  refused,  as  a  sop  to  the  cerberus  of  rebellion.  In  1877 
there  had  been  another  show  that  had  scandalised  Paris. 
Manet  deliberately  defied  criticism  with  an  exhibition 
of  his  own  canvases  for  which  he  wrote  a  catalogue  and  a 
challenge.  Whistler  later  imitated  him.  Official  art 
frowned.  Traces  of  this  frown  I  found  when  I  visited 
Julian's  school,  or  the  ateliers  of  Gerome  and  Bonnat. 
The  way  I  found  myself  in  the  very  thick  of  art  student 
life  was  through  the  good  graces  of  Milne  Ramsey,  a 
young  Philadelphia  painter,  in  the  atelier,  I  think,  of 
Bonnat.  He  had  married  Miss  Ruff,  a  daughter  of  my 
father's  old  friend,  General  Ruff,  and  it  was  at  his  hos 
pitable  studio  that  I  met  some  of  the  young  artistic 
Americans  in  Paris.  Edwin  Blashfield,  W.  H.  Lippincott, 
Charles  Sprague  Pearce,  Herman  Hynemann,  Henry 
Thouron,  Van  der  Kempf,  a  sculptor,  Thomas  Healy — 
who  at  Rome  had  painted  Liszt — Frank  Moss,  Loomis, 
and  Helen  Courson,  who  painted  animals.  Not  Manet, 
but  Bonnat  was  my  man,  and,  with  Gerome,  seemed  to 
be  the  acme  of  vital  progressive  art.  The  portrait  of 
Thiers  is  a  solid  work,  after  all,  beside  which  the  febrile, 
hasty,  abridged  statements  in  the  Manet  portraiture 
appeared  thin  and  shallow.  Yes,  I  confess  it  without  a 
mea-culpa  that  the  Impressionists  repulsed  me  by  their 
glaring,  striped  brush  work,  ugly  subjects  (I  fancy  that  it 
was  there  the  shoe  pinched,  my  eye  having  been  fed  with 
the  beauties  of  the  Italian  schools)  and  their  boastfulness. 
Manet  in  particular  was  an  object  of  curiosity.  His 
colour  appealed;  but  his  faulty  technique,  after  the  neatly 
finished  surfaces  of  Meissonier  or  the  creamy  nudities 
of  Lefebvre !  I  see  it  all  now.  The  official  painting  of 
that  time  was  not  so  bad  as  the  new  crowd  pretended 
it  to  be.  Other  days,  other  palettes.  Bonnat  was 


THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN  241 

not  a  genius  and  Gerome  should  have  begun  with  model 
ling  instead  of  ending  his  career  chisel  in  hand.  His 
talent  was  more  sculptural  than  pictorial. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  plenty  of  power,  felicity  of  ex 
pression,  and  genuine  craftsmanship  in  this  much  abused 
group.  After  thirty  years,  and  after  revisiting  the  Louvre 
or  the  Luxembourg,  I  find  the  Impressionists  as  old- 
fashioned  as  the  Fontainebleau  group;  yes,  even  the 
Pont-Aven  School,  headed  by  Gauguin  and  Van  Gogh, 
is  dating.  The  truth  is  that  the  time  factor  is  grossly 
overestimated.  Good  art  in  1500  or  1830,  or  1867  or 
1918,  remains  good  art.  A  Corot  is  a  thing  of  beauty, 
particularly  his  much-neglected  figure  pieces.  The  natu 
ralistic  movement  had  for  its  true  father  Gustave  Cour- 
bet — a  romantic  canvas  is  his  "  Funeral  at  Ornans,"  ro 
mantic  and  black  as  a  Muncaczy.  Monet  was  the  first 
Impressionist.  Nietzsche  said  the  first  Christian  and 
only  Christian  died  on  the  Cross.  Claude  Monet  was 
the  original  Impressionist,  notwithstanding  his  debt  to 
Turner  and  Watteau;  the  Watteau  of  the  "Embarkment 
for  Cythera"  in  the  Louvre.  The  rest  patterned  after 
this  individual  painter  whose  myopia  made  him  see  his 
landscapes  blurred.  Manet,  much  influenced  by  Velas 
quez  and  Goya,  followed  Monet,  while  Edgar  Degas, 
strictly  speaking,  did  not  belong  to  this  group,  which  had 
been  given  the  unhappy  title  of  the  BatignoIIes  School. 

Atmosphere  was  the  valuable  contribution  of  the  Im 
pressionists  to  art.  I  didn't  know  enough  forty  years 
ago  to  feel  the  current  of  fresh  air  that  swept  through 
Parisian  ateliers.  And  the  gorgeous  hues  of  the  new 
painters.  What  courage  they  had,  and  how  they  were 
jeered  at.  I  remember  going  to  a  minor  show  by  major 


242 STEEPLEJACK 

artists  on  the  Boulevard  Clichy  somewhere,  in  company 
with  William  Lippincott  and  Pearce.  What  fun  we  had 
with  the  comical  smears  of  Pissarro,  Renoir — Mon  Dieu ! 
think  of  it,  Renoir,  a  painter  of  genius — Sisley — the  most 
exquisite  of  them  all — and  Monet.  I  blush  as  I  write  this. 
I  liked  Boudin,  one  of  Monet's  earlier  masters,  yet  couldn't 
trace  the  logical  development  of  his  pupil.  It  was  not 
till  the  spring  of  1885,  an(^  at  tne  exhibition  held  in  the 
Durand-Ruel  Galleries  then  on  Fifth  Avenue  at  Thirty- 
sixth  Street,  that  a  great  light  broke  in  upon  me.  No 
doubt  my  eyes  had  been  unconsciously  trained  by  the  first 
pictures  seen  in  Paris.  Now,  the  Caillebotte  gallery  in 
the  Luxembourg  seems  antiquated.  The  men  of  1830, 
too,  are  for  the  most  part  stale.  Theodore  Rousseau— 
the  biggest  of  the  group — is  blackening,  Jules  Dupre  is 
greasy  in  colour  and  sloppy  in  sentiment.  Diaz  is  sen 
suous  in  colour,  Monticelli  in  his  best  estate  is  richer, 
while  Daubigny,  despite  the  high  prices  he  fetches,  is 
often  obvious.  Corot  has  lasted.  The  followers,  Har- 
pignies,  Breton,  Jacque,  and  the  rest  need  not  concern 
us.  Painting  has  its  fashions  and  fluctuations.  I  am 
chiefly  concerned  with  the  fact  that  Meissonier  seemed 
then  a  more  finished  painter  than  Manet;  perhaps  he 
was  so  finished  that  he  was  lifeless,  his  metallic  style 
crushing  the  vitality  of  his  figures.  Manet  gave  his 
generation  a  new  opera-glass  with  which  to  view  the  pass 
ing  show.  He  was  the  great  colourist  of  his  epoch,  though 
not  so  big  a  personality  or  temperament  as  either  Dela 
croix  or  Courbet.  I  fear  that  I  have  always  been  a  re 
actionary,  witness  my  present  admiration  for  such  dear 
old-fashioned  classics  as  Stendhal,  Ibsen,  Strindberg, 
Karl  Marx,  Nietzsche,  Max  Stirner,  and  George  Shaw. 
Archaic  ?  Yes — Noaharchaic. 


THE  WHIRL  OF  THE  TOWN  243 

Carolus-Duran  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  with  his 
velvet  jacket,  lace  collars  and  cuffs,  dark,  handsome  head, 
and  eyes  sparkling  with  diabolic  verve.  He  looked  as 
he  painted,  a  much  more  unusual  combination  than  is 
believed — brilliant  and  attractive.  I  know  now  that  he 
plays  second  fiddle  to  Alfred  Stevens  of  Brussels,  in 
quality  and  design,  but  he  did  knock  us  out  with  his 
virtuosity,  which  his  pupil,  John  Singer  Sargent,  inherited. 
Gandara  among  living  painters  has  the  same  clever 
knack,  the  drawing-room  touch;  never  great  art.  Gerome 
was  a  severe  man,  chary  of  speech,  interested  in  paint- 
problems.  Bonnat  I  liked,  hail  -  fellow  -  well  -  met,  yet 
always  the  dignified  master,  a  rather  difficult  pose  to 
maintain.  Thomas  Couture  I  saw  in  his  home  at  Villiers- 
le-Bel,  on  the  road  to  Ecouen.  The  admired  painter  of 
"The  Romans  of  the  Decadence,"  with  its  baccha 
nalian  attitudes,  its  official  scheme  of  composition  and 
hot  colouring,  was  then  failing  in  health.  He  had 
outlived  his  reputation.  An  amiable  invalid,  happy 
with  his  wife  and  daughters  in  his  villa  and  generous 
gardens,  he  told  me  some  things  of  his  contemporaries. 
He  despised  Manet,  "a  painter  without  talent,  vain  of 
his  missing  tail,  like  the  fox  in  the  fable."  Couture 
painted  some  pretty  pictures,  notably  the  boy  blowing 
soap  bubbles,  hanging  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  New 
York;  but  he  was  obsessed  by  the  grand  manner.  He 
longed  to  be  a  second  J.  L.  David.  And  he  was  not. 
He  died  shortly  after  in  1879.  My  passion  for  the  land 
scapes  of  Claude  Lorraine  and  J.  B.  Poussin  was  justified 
by  the  architectural  design  of  Poussin,  and  the  tender 
ness  of  tone  still  surviving  in  Claude.  They  are  masters 
despite  the  newcomers. 


VI 
BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST 

I  went  often  to  the  Cafe  Guerbois  on  the  exterior 
boulevard,  where  I  saw  Manet,  Degas,  Desboutins,  but 
not  Monet.  My  acquaintance  with  the  visionary  Villiers 
de  Flsle  Adam  began  at  this  cafe.  Writer  of  prose  tales, 
an  improvisor  at  the  keyboard  as  well  as  before  a  table, 
he  fascinated  me.  I  have  written  of  him  at  length  in  the 
first  chapter  of  The  Pathos  of  Distance,  called  The 
Magic  Lantern,  and  critically  considered  him  in  Icono 
clasts.  Villiers  was  a  fabulous  creature.  Dream  and 
reality  were  so  closely  woven  in  his  consciousness  that 
he  never  seemed  quite  awake  or  sleeping.  Whether  he 
drugged  or  not  I  can't  say,  but  he  was  the  greatest  liar 
I  ever  met,  and  I  have  met  many — being  a  newspaper 
man.  Only — Villiers  was  an  artistic  liar.  He  told  im 
probable  stories,  always  figuring  as  the  hero,  that  would 
have  made  Baron  Miinchausen  blush.  His  magic  lan 
tern,  for  instance,  which  I  recorded,  is  one  of  his  splendid 
inventions.  He  was  an  accomplished  monologuist,  and 
needed  but  a  vinegar-cruet  as  an  audience,  his  fellow- 
man  failing;  but  fellow-man  seldom  failed.  When 
Villiers  had  money  he  paid  for  the  entertainment,  and 
if  poor,  which  was  the  rule,  he  still  paid  for  others'  food 
and  drink  by  improvising  stories  which  were  promptly 
gobbled  up  by  his  good  friends,  who  lost  no  time  in  pawn 
ing  the  stolen  goods  at  the  nearest  newspaper  office. 
He  was  a  gold-mine,  this  marvellous  magician,  Villiers 
de  I'lsle  Adam.  But  Joris-Karel  Huysmans  and  a  few 

244 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  245 

intimate  friends  had  to  look  after  his  funeral  expenses. 
Perhaps  there  are  a  few  Americans  who  remember  his 
tale,  The  Torture  by  Hope,  as  Poesque  as  The  Pit  and  the 
Pendulum.  He  loved  Poe,  and  wrote  a  novel  with 
Thomas  A.  Edison  as  hero.  The  Eve  of  the  Future,  it  is 
called,  and  is  the  grotesque  story  of  an  artificial  woman 
made  of  steel  springs,  who  loves  a  man.  Perhaps  if  he 
had  heard  an  Edison  phonograph  with  all  its  horrors, 
he  might  not  have  put  the  inventor  in  a  book,  for  he  was 
a  fanatical  lover  of  music  and  an  intimate  friend  of 
Richard  Wagner.  He  it  was  who  told  me  of  Manet's 
famous  witticisms.  Manet  before  a  picture  of  Meis- 
sonier,  "The  Charge  of  the  Cuirassiers."  "Good,  very 
good,"  exclaimed  the  painter  of  Olympia — not  then  in 
the  Louvre.  "All  is  steel  except  the  breastplates." 
Meissonier  was  furious  when  a  kind  friend  carried  the 
mot  to  him.  Alfred  Stevens  had  said  that  Manet 
"drank  the  beer  of  Haarlem"  after  seeing  his  "Le  Bon 
Bock,"  which  is  unmistakably  derived  from  Frans  Hals, 
and  Manet  waited  for  his  revenge  and  got  it  when  he 
saw  a  picture  by  Stevens  portraying  a  fashionable  young 
woman  in  street  dress  standing  before  a  portiere,  which 
she  is  about  to  push  aside  to  enter  the  next  room. 
Manet  noted  an  elaborately  painted  feather  duster- 
Stevens  was  a  master  of  still-life — which  lies  on  the  floor 
at  the  feet  of  the  lady — "Ha,"  he  ejaculated,  "she  has 
a  rendezvous  with  the  valet-de-chambre ! " 

Villiers  wrote  a  five-act  play  entitled  "The  New  World" 
for  which  he  won  a  prize  of  ten  thousand  francs,  and  a 
medal  of  honour.  The  prize  was  offered  to  the  French 
dramatic  author  "who  would  most  powerfully  recall  in  a 
work  of  four  or  five  acts  the  episode  of  the  proclamation 
of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States,  the  hundredth 


246  STEEPLEJACK 

anniversary  of  which  fell  on  July  4,  1876."  It  was  hissed 
at  its  production  in  1883.  There  were  only  six  presenta 
tions  at  the  Theatre  des  Nations.  It  is  unreadable  a 
second  time.  The  poet  was  not  a  playwright.  He  was 
of  noble  family,  an  ardent  Roman  Catholic,  and  a  Dia- 
bolist;  one  of  those  Catholics  like  his  friends,  Barbey 
d'Aurevilly  and  Paul  Verlaine,  of  whom  their  coreligion 
ists  were  not  precisely  proud  despite  the  devotion  ex 
pressed  in  their  writings  to  the  church.  One  of  the 
witty  epigrams  of  Villiers  is  worthy  of  Voltaire.  After 
a  character  of  his  Bonhomet  goes  to  heaven  the  Almighty 
greets  him:  "Well,  Bonhomet,  when  do  you  propose  to 
drop  the  mask?"  "After  you,  Seigneur!"  responds  the 
cynical  Triboulet,  slayer  of  swans  at  midnight  and  pro 
fessional  idealist  at  large. 

I  have  spoken  of  Franz  Liszt  and  the  almost  irresistible 
influence  his  legend  had  upon  my  youthful  imagination. 
He  was  like  the  mountain  in  the  Arabian  Nights;  all  the 
ships  with  their  little  musical  Sinbads  were  dragged  out 
of  their  course  and  ended  by  clinging  to  him  as  does  iron 
to  a  magnet.  I  had  no  plan,  only  to  meet  him,  hear 
him  play.  I  have  elsewhere  related  of  pursuing  an  old 
man  with  white  hair,  groggy  nose  and  warts  in  abundance; 
it  was  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  He  was  sitting  in  a  fiacre. 
I  chased  it  for  the  length  of  that  very  long  street.  Was 
it  Liszt?  I  couldn't  take  my  affidavit  that  it  was. 
There  were  many  old,  wrhite-haired  men  in  Paris;  also 
groggy  noses — Liszt  was  a  celebrated  cognac  absorber — 
and  wearing  warts  all  over  their  faces.  I  haunted  the 
Exposition,  especially  the  Austro-Hungarian  section.  I 
never  saw  him,  but  one  evening  in  the  concert  hall,  I 
heard  Nicolas  Rubinstein  play  the  first  Tschaikovsky 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  247 

piano  concerto,  the  very  composition  he  had  derided 
under  the  nose  of  Peter  Illitsch  a  few  years  previous  at 
Moscow.  It  was  not  a  novelty  for  me  as  I  had  heard 
von  Billow  play  it  in  the  Academy  of  Music,  Philadelphia, 
either  in  the  autumn  of  1875  or  early  in  1876.  B.  J. 
Lang,  of  Boston,  conducted  the  orchestra  and  things 
were  soon  at  sixes  and  sevens;  the  solo  performer  was 
white  with  rage.  The  playing  of  Nicolas,  the  brother 
of  the  mighty  Anton,  did  not  stir  me,  but  it  was  of  crystal 
line  purity  and  impeccable  as  to  technique.  His  style 
was  more  finished  than  Anton's.  But  the  passion,  and 
that  nameless  something  we  feel,  rather  than  call,  genius, 
he  did  not  possess.  Poor  Tschaikovsky,  who  had  been 
abused  by  both  brothers  for  the  workmanship  of  this  B 
flat  minor  concerto  would  have  smiled  if  he  had  heard 
the  interpretation  of  Nicolas.  Rafael  Joseffy  was  at 
this  time  associated  with  Tschaikovsky  in  the  Moscow 
conservatory,  of  which  Nicolas  Rubinstein  was  director. 
He  it  was  who  first  told  me  of  the  mysterious  taking-off 
of  Nicolas,  who  did  not  die  from  too  much  wine-drinking, 
but  was  murdered  by  a  jealous  husband,  and  with  a 
sand  club,  in  the  same  manner  as  L.  M.  Gottschalk  in 
South  America.  The  piano  virtuoso,  Emil  Sauer,  a 
pupil  of  Nicolas,  hints  at  the  occurrence  in  his  autobi 
ography,  My  Life,  but  Joseffy  gave  me  the  details. 
Struck  in  the  milt  by  a  sand  club,  which  leaves  hardly 
a  perceptible  bruise,  the  unlucky  pianist  agonised  for 
weeks;  he  even  was  transported  to  Paris,  but  he  failed  to 
get  relief,  and  died  stupefied  by  morphine.  There  are 
many  matters  that  never  get  into  the  newspapers. 
Tschaikovsky 's  death  was  another.  Cholera  or  suicide? 
I  was  refused  at  the  Paris  Conservatoire  de  la  Musique, 
then  in  its  old  quarters,  Rue  du  Faubourg — Poissoniere. 


248  STEEPLEJACK 

Ambroise  Thomas  was  musical  director,  a  soured  man 
whose  "Mignon"  remained  his  one  success.  "Hamlet," 
even  with  Lassalle  singing  the  title-role,  was  a  joke,  Shake 
spearean  and  otherwise.  My  examination  was  set  down 
for  November  13,  and  I  had  been  prepared  for  its  rigours 
by  going  to  church  daily  for  a  week.  Old  man  Lefevre 
saw  to  that.  But  if,  as  Napoleon  said,  God  is  on  the  side 
of  the  heaviest  battalions,  he  must  have  sided  on  that  par 
ticular  day  with  the  greatest  technique.  I  didn't  have 
a  show.  I  was  too  frightened  to  play  a  scale  evenly. 
My  entrance  on  the  stage,  before  the  jury,  was  greeted 
by  an  exclamation  from  Madame  Massart,  nee  Masson, 
"Quelle  barbe!"  alluding  to  the  blond  fleece  on  my 
sawney  chin.  I  had  a  sweet  fluffy  beard.  Was  I  not  a 
Bohemian  in  Paris?  Velveteen  coat,  Scotch  cap,  open 
shirt.  Oh !  what  a  guy  I  must  have  been.  Once  I  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  a  distinguished  visitor  in  Paris, 
though  no  stranger  there,  Albert,  Prince  of  Wales.  He 
stood  in  a  jeweller's  shop  on  the  grand  boulevard,  exam 
ining  something  sparkling.  It  was  near  the  door.  I 
stared  in.  No  doubt  I  looked  like  a  hungry  person.  I 
wasn't,  but  the  Prince  didn't  know  it,  and  putting1  a 
spray  of  diamonds  in  a  case  into  his  coat  pocket  he  came 
out  of  the  place  broadly  smiling  at  me,  and  his  sole  com 
panion,  a  handsome  young  chap,  joined  in.  I  did,  too. 
Later  at  Marienbad  (in  1903)  I  saw  the  same  equerry  of 
King  Edward,  the  Hon.  Captain  Ponsonby.  But  the 
Conservatoire !  To  tell  the  truth  I  am  tired  of  retelling 
that  old  tale.  Suffice  to  say  that  with  all  my  "pull"  I 
was  turned  down.  I  had  asked  Lucy  Hamilton  Hooper 
to  get  me  a  letter  from  General  Fairchild,  who  was  either 
the  American  Minister  or  Consul  General.  I've  for 
gotten  which.  Mrs.  Hooper  had  been  Paris  correspon- 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  249 

dent  of  the  Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin,  and  was  the 
wife  of  Robert  Hooper  of  our  consulate.  This  letter,  so 
graciously  given  me,  was  presented  and  did  something, 
for  it  got  me  admission  to  the  piano  class  of  Georges 
Mathias,  a  pupil  of  Chopin,  not  indeed  to  play,  but  to 
listen,  a  very  important  act  in  the  study  of  music.  I 
became  "auditeur"  for  a  short  period,  and  also  had  the 
advice  in  private  of  M.  Mathias,  a  charming  old  gentle 
man,  who  told  me  more  about  the  personality  of  Chopin 
than  all  the  books  on  the  subject.  Chopin  was  a  human 
being,  after  all, '  and  neither  an  angel  of  light  nor  a 
demon  of  darkness.  Like  many  another  man  of  genius 
— or  business — he  was  very  irritable.  His  tuberculosis 
and  neurasthenia  made  him  impatient,  poor  suffering 
man.  The  Sand  affair  was  over  when  Mathias  had 
studied;  Chopin  did  not  die  from  the  parting  with  Sand, 
but  from  the  liaison  itself.  Sand  never  spared  youth. 
Yet  she,  too,  must  have  had  tempestuous  times.  Her 
invalid  had  his  daily  tantrums.  She  loved  her  liberty. 
He  didn't  like  the  idea  that  she  entertained  men  even 
at  her  home — also  his — during  his  absence.  That  was 
the  chief  cause  of  the  rupture  with  Liszt.  I  hinted  at  it 
in  my  book  on  Chopin.  The  worst  side  of  the  brief 
adventure  was  that  Sand  piloted  Liszt  to  Chopin's  own 
apartment,  who,  on  his  return,  found  the  place  in  dis 
order.  He  never  forgave  either  Liszt  or  Sand.  It  was 
an  ignoble  episode.  To  my  surprise,  I  learned  that 
Frederic  was  fickle.  He  had  a  new  affair  every  day. 
His  parting  from  George  was  partly  brought  about  by 
indifference  on  her  side,  and  wholly  through  the  devilish 
intriguing  of  her  sweet  daughter,  Solange,  who  made 
open  love  to  Frederic,  so  as  to  give  her  mother  pain. 
Most  writers  balk  at  this  too  Gallic  situation  (to  be 


250  STEEPLEJACK 

found  in  novels,  and  in  Maurice  Donnay's  play  "L'Autre 
Danger").  But  Madame  Waldemar  Karenine,  Sand's 
Russian  biographer,  does  not.  The  combination  of  con 
sumption  and  George  Sand  would  have  killed  Casanova. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  seamy  side  of 
Paris  interested  me.  I  never  worked  under  such  a 
forced  emotional  draught  as  in  those  few  years.  I  felt 
that  my  parents  might  send  for  me  at  any  moment,  and 
I  didn't  waste  time.  I  had  set  high  standards  for  my 
self.  It  was  to  be  a  crucifixion  on  the  cross  of  art. 
Goethe's  advice,  which  I  had  read  in  Carlyle,  to  live  in 
the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  did  not  seem  too 
difficult.  Walter  Pater,  who  owes  more  to  the  sage  of 
Weimar  than  is  generally  supposed,  had  assured  us  that 
success  in  life  was  "to  burn  always  with  this  hard  gem- 
like  flame,  to  maintain  this  ecstasy,"  a  counsel  of  perfec 
tion,  but  one  that  might  also  lead  to  a  mad-house. 
"Failure  is  to  form  habits  .  .  .  not  the  fruit  of  experi 
ence,  but  experience  itself  is  the  end."  Well,  I  failed  to 
form  habits,  yet  I  am  no  nearer  success,  hedonistic  or 
worldly.  And  William  Blake  with  his  suggestion  that 
the  road  to  wisdom  is  through  the  valley  of  excess,  did 
not  work  wonders  with  me.  Havelock  Ellis  points  out 
that  spiritual  excess  is  meant  by  the  great  English  poet, 
mystic,  and  designer.  Perhaps.  In  either  case,  head 
aches,  moral  and  physical,  are  bound  to  follow.  I  was 
aflame  with  enthusiasm  that  like  stubble  burnt  out  in  a 
trice.  I  never  climbed  so  many  perilous  steeples  as  in 
Paris.  I  wished  to  be  shown  all  the  splendours  of  earthly 
wisdom.  I  longed  for  the  glory  that  was  Liszt's,  and  the 
grandeur  that  was  Rubinstein's.  After  eating  horse 
meat  while  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  heavenly  consigned 
parcels  from  the  infinite,  I  became  a  cultivator  of  "res- 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  251 

taurant  fat,"  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says;  and  R.  L.  S. 
was  at  Grez,  near  Fontainebleau  in  1879.  I  had  rather 
have  met  that  uncanny  Scotch  youth  or  George  Moore 
than  Flaubert  or  Turgenev.  But  fate  willed  otherwise. 

I  was  a  regular  frequenter  of  the  Pasdeloup  Sunday 
afternoon  concerts  in  the  Cirque  d'HJver,  also  of  the  Cha- 
telet  concerts.  Jacques  Pasdeloup  conducted  the  Winter 
Circus  affairs.  His  real  name  was  said  to  be  Jacob 
Wolfgang.  But  he  was  Parisian  born,  he  wore  whisk 
ers  and  waved  a  wand,  that  is  all  I  recall  of  his  person 
ality.  Colonne  and  Lamoureux  drove  him  out  of  the 
concert  field  a  few  years  after  I  heard  him.  As  an  or 
chestra  the  Pasdeloup  could  never  compete  with  the 
band  at  the  Conservatoire,  technically  the  most  polished 
in  Paris.  I  listened  to  much  new  music  at  the  Sunday 
popular  concerts,  amongst  the  rest  Rimsky-KorsakofPs 
symphonic  legend,  "Sadko."  And  heartily  hissed  it  was. 
A  minority  in  the  audience,  to  be  exact,  the  students  in 
the  top  gallery,  applauded,  and  fisticuffs  ensued.  I 
usually  left  the  Boulevard  des  BatignoIIes  after  my  mid 
day  breakfast,  traversing  the  Quartier  de  P  Europe,  till  I 
reached  the  Rue  de  Rome,  down  the  slope  of  which  I 
swiftly  descended  to  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  where  I  switched 
through  the  Rue  St.  Lazare,  to  the  grand  boulevard,  via 
the  Rue  de  la  Chausee  d'Antin,  and  down  the  boulevard 
to  the  Cirque  d'Hiver,  a  long  walk,  there  and  back,  even 
for  my  young  legs.  Invariably  there  was  a  battle  to 
reach  the  gallery — fifteen  cents  admission — and  secure 
front-row  seats.  Once  on  the  Rue  de  Rome  I  saw  the 
blond-bearded  Manet  with  Stephane  Mallarme;  both 
lived  in  the  European  quarter;  in  fact,  the  Latin  quarter 
was  not  so  popular  with  painters  or  writers  then  as  the 


252  STEEPLEJACK 

more  commodious,  better-lighted  studios  along  the  boule 
vards  des  BatignoJIes  or  Clichy — really  the  same  broad 
street.  The  last  time  I  was  in  Paris — 1914 — I  walked 
up  the  steep  Rue  de  Rome  and  visited  my  old  home  on 
the  Rue  de  Puteaux,  expecting  to  find  another  building. 
But  there  it  stood,  shabby,  like  the  entire  block,  while 
across  the  narrow  street  was  the  yellow  wall  enclosing  the 
forlorn  garden  with  the  same  dusty  trees.  I  asked  the 
lady  of  the  house,  the  concierge,  if  she  remembered  Papa 
Bernard.  I  risked  the  question  because  she  was  over 
eighty,  and  evidently  an  old  inhabitant  of  the  quarter. 
Miraculously,  she  remembered  him.  She  had  been  in  his 
service  before  my  time,  and  later  lived  in  the  same  street. 
He  had  remained  at  No.  5  for  a  few  years,  then  he  had 
moved  up  the  Boulevard  Clichy.  After  that — a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders.  And  his  wife,  the  estimable  sage — 
femme ! — ah !  that  predacious  beak  of  hers,  and  her 
prowling  ways  [—"Monsieur,"  responded  the  brave 
woman,  "he  had  so  many  wives." 

Feeling  as  if  I  had  peeped  into  a  dark,  dirty,  old  well, 
I  tipped  her  and  resumed  my  excursion  down  the  boule 
vard.  Even  that  deformed  dwarf  had  his  compensations. 
At  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  I  saw  a  revival  of  "Ruy  Bias." 
"L'Assomoir"  was  dramatised  and  produced  early  in 
1879.  The  actor  who  originated  the  role  of  Coupeau, 
the  drunken  roofer  and  husband  of  Gervaise,  actually 
died  in  delirium  tremens.  He  had  become  abnormally 
thirsty  playing  the  role  of  a  drunkard.  The  winner  of 
the  grand  prize  in  the  lottery,  125,000  francs,  was  a 
tanner  named  Aubriot.  Clotilde  Kleeberg's  piano  play 
ing  charmed  me.  She  was  a  cousin  of  the  painter,  Her 
man  Hynemann,  of  Philadelphia,  I  met  her  again  at 
Baireuth,  in  1896.  She  remembered  her  debut  at  the 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  253 

Pasdeloup  concert.  I  heard  Miolan-Carvalho  at  the 
grand  opera,  also  the  tenor,  Talazac.  Camilla  Sivori, 
one  of  the  rare  pupils  of  Paganini,  played  at  the  Pas 
deloup  matinee.  He  was  very  old,  and  his  tone  was 
small,  but  he  was  an  artist.  He  had  appeared  in  Phila 
delphia,  as  had  Henri  Vieuxtemps,  and  while  the  mem 
ory  of  the  Belgian  master  is  vivid,  I  can't  clearly  recall 
Sivori  there.  The  original  Carmen,  Galli-Marie,  I  heard, 
but  not  in  the  Bizet  opera.  I  don't  think  the  work  was 
given  at  the  Opera  Comique  while  I  was  in  Paris.  It  was 
not  the  enormous  failure  generally  supposed.  Philip 
Hale  has  dispelled  that  myth;  nor  did  Georges  Bizet  die 
of  a  broken  heart  over  the  supposed  fiasco.  Like  Alfred 
de  Musset,  he  died  from  too  much  absinthe.  Zola  I  saw 
and  Daudet.  There  was  no  thought  of  Paul  Cezanne  in 
those  days,  but  Barbey  d'Aurevilly  still  promenaded, 
lace  cuffs,  clouded  cane,  corseted,  and  hair  flowing  like 
the  mane  of  a  Barbary  mare  (I  never  saw  a  Barbary 
mare,  but  suppose  the  animal  has  a  mane). 

Anna  Bock  was  another  debutante  in  1879.  She  came 
from  New  York  and  had  studied  with  Liszt.  I  heard 
her  at  the  Salle  Pleyel,  where,  in  company  with  Leonard, 
she  played  Beethoven's  Kreutzer  Sonata  for  piano  and 
violin;  also  some  Chopin.  Frederic  Boscovitz,  another 
Liszt  pupil,  a  Hungarian  and  cousin  of  Joseffy,  gave 
several  concerts  at  the  Salle  Erard.  He  was  familiar 
to  me  as  I  had  attended  his  daily  recital  at  the  Centennial 
Exposition,  where  he  had  charge  of  the  Steinway  section. 
The  Marie  Tayau  string  quartet  numbered  among  its 
members  an  American  girl  from  New  Orleans,  Jeanne 
Franko,  the  sister  of  the  conductors  and  violinists, 
Nahan  and  Sam  Franko.  She  is  still  playing  in  New 
York.  Marie  Tayau  was  a  violin  talent.  Miss  Franko 


254  STEEPLEJACK 

took  the  second  violin  in  the  quartet.  Louis  Diemer 
played  the  E  minor  Chopin  piano  concerto.  I  didn't 
admire  it.  It  was  like  most  French  Chopin  interpreta 
tions,  precise  and  chilly.  Only  Slavs  play  Chopin  to 
perfection.  Think  of  listening  to  Berlioz,  his  "Romeo 
et  Juliette"  at  a  concert  du  Chatelet !  Colonne  con 
ducted.  At  the  opera  the  director  was  Halanzier. 
During  one  week  I  heard  "Der  Freischutz,"  a  ballet, 
"Yeddo,"  "Faust,"  and  "Robert  le  Diable."  Catho 
licity  in  taste !  "Fatiniza"  was  also  produced.  I  chiefly 
remember  it  with  Jeannie  Winston  at  the  old  Chestnut 
Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia. 

Honore  Daumier  died  in  1879  at  tne  advanced  age  of 
seventy-seven.  He  must  have  been  pickled  in  alcohol, 
but,  unlike  Monticelli,  that  evoker  of  gorgeous  land 
scapes,  the  great  caricaturist,  still  greater  painter,  did  not 
touch  absinthe.  He  loved  brandy.  It  didn't  hurt  his 
art,  nor  did  absinthe  hurt  the  art  of  Ziem,  who  lived  to 
be  ninety,  but  the  poison  killed  Monticelli.  It  was  sim 
ply  a  survival  of  the  fittest  tank.  Daumier's  modesty 
was  proverbial.  He  was  a  close  friend  of  Corot  and 
Daubigny.  One  day  Daubigny  introduced  him  to  a 
rich  American  picture  dealer  (are  there  any  poor  ones?) 
and  warned  him  not  to  ask  less  than  5,000  francs  for  the 
first  picture.  This  he  did.  The  American  paid  the  price, 
then  begged  for  more.  Daumier  showed  him  another 
canvas.  How  much?  The  artist  was  perplexed.  Dau 
bigny  had  said  nothing  about  a  second  picture.  Em 
barrassed,  he  replied,  "500  francs."  "Don't  want  it," 
said  the  other.  "I  don't  like  it  as  well  as  the  first;  be 
sides,  I  never  sell  any  but  dear  pictures."  Daumier 
delighted  in  repeating  this  rather  doubtful  story.  But 
a  witticism  of  his  was  afterwards  appropriated  by  Jemmy 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  255 

Whistler.  Emboldened  by  his  encounter  with  the  Ameri 
can  dealer,  Daumier  had  asked  a  wealthy  amateur  50,000 
francs  for  a  beautiful  picture.  The  man  looked  around 
the  shabby  atelier  and  then  at  the  artist  as  if  he  had  been 
an  escaped  lunatic.  "What,  Monsieur!  for  that  little 
canvas,  50,000  francs?"  "My  posthumous  price,  Mon 
sieur!"  proudly  responded  Daumier.  The  picture  was 
one  of  his  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  compositions, 
and  its  posthumous  price  was  double  what  the  painter 
had  asked  for  it. 

One  afternoon  as  I  was  leaving  my  palace  in  the 
BatignoIIes  an  open  carriage  drove  to  the  door  and  out 
jumped  my  old  friend,  the  scarecrow  of  the  steerage  on 
the  steamship  Canada.  He  really  had  a  rich  uncle 
living  on  the  Rue  de  Provence,  and  had  learned  my  ad 
dress  at  Drexel's.  He  carried  a  large  bouquet  which 
he  effusively  offered  to  me,  as  if  I  were  a  prima  donna. 
Naturally  I  was  embarrassed,  but  the  concierge  was 
impressed.  The  young  man  was  again  on  Easy  Street 
and  no  doubt  had  wheedled  his  banker  relative  into  a 
grand  generosity.  What  could  I  do  but  accompany 
him,  breakfast  with  him  at  "Les  Trois  Freres  Proven- 
£aux,"  still  on  the  boulevard,  and  take  a  ride  to  Auteuil? 
There  were  other  items,  too,  but  I've  forgotten  them; 
suffice  to  add  that  I  never  saw  him  again,  my  friend  with 
the  rhetorical  rags.  He  had  called  merely  to  dazzle  me; 
and  he  did. 

At  a  benefit  for  the  yellow  fever  sufferers  in  New  Or 
leans  (September,  1878),  I  heard  Camille  Saint-Saens  at 
the  piano  for  the  first  time.  In  company  with  his  pupil, 
Madame  Montigny-Remaury,  he  played  his  own  arrange 
ment  of  the  trio  from  Beethoven's  E  flat  Sonata,  opus  31, 


256  STEEPLEJACK 


No.  3,  for  two  pianos.  He  also  gave  with  finesse  his  G 
minor  concerto  for  piano  and  orchestra.  Josefiy  alone 
outshone  him  in  the  scherzo.  In  this  hall  of  the  Troca- 
dero,  and  in  1896,  I  heard  Harold  Bauer  play  the  work. 
And  in  that  same  season  I  went  to  a  concert  in  the  Salle 
Erard  which  celebrated  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
first  public  appearance  of  the  composer,  who  refuses  to 
become  venerable,  even  in  1919.  He  played  in 
public  there  in  1846.  I  have  listened  to  much  of  his  or 
chestral  music  in  Paris;  too  much,  for  his  range  is  lim 
ited,  though  his  resourcefulness  is  remarkable.  With 
the  years  his  playing  has  become  dry;  in  1878  it  was 
scintillating.  A  piano  touch,  like  a  voice,  loses  its  fresh 
ness,  its  tactile  sensibility.  Von  Billow  was  always  dry, 
but  his  intellectual  power  dominated  his  audience. 
Saint-Saens,  a  protege  of  Liszt,  wrote  interesting  music, 
significant,  though  not  original  music.  He  is  an  eclectic. 
His  "Deluge"  at  the  Pasdeloup  proved  a  deluge  of 
notes  without  a  Mt.  Ararat  of  a  melody  to  perch  upon. 
His  opera,  "Etienne  Marcel,"  produced  at  Lyons,  met 
with  fair  success.  Patti  and  Nicolini  were  at  Nice. 
Nicolas,  her  second  husband,  better  known  by  his  stage 
name  Nicolini,  won  favour  in  America.  I  heard  them 
in  "Ai'da."  Aunt  Adelina  wasn't  Ai'da  for  a  moment, 
but  how  she  warbled  in  the  Nile  scene.  Her  trusty  com 
panion,  Mile.  Bauermeister — not  Mathilde  of  Metro 
politan  Opera  House  memory — wasn't  an  admirer  of 
Nicolini.  Too  many  husbands  spoiled  the  vocal  broth, 
she  grumbled.  One  night  when  the  tenor  was  on  the 
scene,  Patti  asked  the  faithful  Bauermeister  his  where 
abouts.  "He  is  out  there  whimpering  before  the  foot 
lights,"  she  grimly  replied.  Not  such  an  unfair  criticism, 
as  Nicolini  did  indulge  in  the  "  voix  larmoyante, " 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  257 

so  beloved  of  Italian  tenors.  Fancy  my  hearing 
Alfred  Jaell,  the  fat  pianist,  who  gave  up  playing 
because  his  arms  could  no  longer  reach  the  keyboard 
when  his  stomach  became  a  balloon.  He  played  with 
neatness  and  musically.  His  wife,  Marie  Jaell,  composed. 
Her  piano  playing  was  broader  than  her  husband's  waist; 
withal  lacking  in  unction.  Colonne  conducted  the 
"Damnation"  of  Berlioz — as  well  as  of  "Faust" — and  I 
wondered  why  people  went  to  hear  Miolan-Carvalho, 
as  Marguerite  Gabrielle  Krauss  was  more  impressive. 
There  was  a  composer  in  vogue  named  Leon  Vasseur. 
"La  Timbale  d' Argent"  made  Offenbach  sit  up,  but 
"Le  Droit  du  Seigneur"  did  not,  though  the  book  was 
naughty  and  mediaeval,  setting  forth  a  certain  immemorial 
right  of  the  lord  of  the  manor  (see  Blackstone  on  Free- 
Soccage  and  Knight  Service). 

Theodore  Ritter,  then  cher  ami  of  Carlotta  Patti, 
was  a  popular  favourite.  He  boasted  a  technique  that 
made  him  king-pin  of  Parisian  pianists  (his  real  name 
was  Bennet).  Only  Frangois  Plante  excelled  him  in 
polish.  Plante  to-day  is  over  eighty,  yet  gives  the  illu 
sion  of  youth.  His  photograph  was  sent  me  recently  by 
Isidor  Phillipp,  the  director  of  the  Conservatoire  piano 
classes.  How  he  could  play  the  Mendelssohn  Concertos  ! 
Alkan  was  another  technician.  Terrifying  are  his  studies. 
I  never  heard  anyone  play  them  except  Charles  Jarvis 
and  Edward  McDowell.  Ritter  at  the  keyboard  playing 
the  slow  movement  of  the  Beethoven  "Kreutzer  Sonata" 
with  the  first  violins  of  the  Pasdeloup  orchestra,  twenty 
in  number,  was  more  novel  than  artistically  stimulating. 
But  the  pianist  was  always  sure  of  a  recall  after  he  had 
played  his  own  arrangement  of  the  Bizet  Minuet  from 
"L'Arlesienne."  At  the  Academic  des  Beaux- Arts,  Mas- 


258  STEEPLEJACK 

senet  was  nominated  to  fill  the  chair  left  vacant  by  the 
death  of  Francois  Bazin.  Massenet  won  favour  with  his 
"Les  Erinnyes,"  music  for  the  antique  tragedy.  He  was 
adored  by  the  pretty  ladies.  Sybil  Sanderson  was  not 
yet  in  Paris,  and  his  fashionable  operas  not  born.  Theo 
dore  Dubois  and  his  "Le  Paradis  Perdu "  was  well 
spoken  of;  Dubois  is  a  genteel  composer,  politely  saluting 
the  classics.  I  liked  much  better  Benjamin  Godard. 
Laura  Donne  played  with  the  Tayau  quartet.  "The 
Youth  of  Hercules,"  symphonic  poem  by  the  clever  Saint- 
Saens,  was  produced  at  the  Pasdeloup  matinee.  Novelty, 
as  it  was,  it  was  not  hissed.  Et  patiti  et  patita!  I 
might  go  on  for  years  and  not  exhaust  my  reminiscences 
of  musical  Paris.  But  there  is  a  time  for  all  things,  so 
let  us  talk  about  Worth,  the  emperor  of  dressmakers. 

M.  Lefevre,  an  old  customer  of  the  famous  master  of 
confections,  introduced  me  to  M.  Worth  at  his  historical 
atelier  in  the  Place  Vendome.  He  was  an  Englishman 
aged  forty-five  or  fifty  years.  His  procedure  when  "com 
posing"  a  toilette  has  been  imitated  by  every  male  dress 
maker  in  the  business.  I  didn't  see  him  in  action — that 
might  have  made  me  uneasy,  as  his  fair  and  fashionable 
clients  were  often  forced  to  imitate  the  humble  onion  as 
to  peeling — but  he  was  amiable  enough  to  give  a  list  of 
the  gowns  composing  the  trousseau  of  her  Imperial 
Transparency  the  Grand  Duchess  Anastasia  of  Russia. 
(Where  are  those  virginal  Muscovites  of  yesteryear?  In 
Siberia?)  And  I  printed  the  contents  of  this  trousseau 
in  my  weekly  letter  to  The  Evening  Bulletin.  Imagine  me 
writing:  "A  ball  dress  of  pink  tulle,  satin  trimmed  with 
garlands  formed  by  a  fringe  of  orange  blossoms."  It  was 
fair  reporting  and  served  to  train  my  eye  for  the  op 
eratic  stage,  where  costume  counts  more  than  sing- 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  259 

ing.  After  Worth,  I  was  ready  to  interview  the  Pope — 
which  I  actually  did  in  1905.  Benjamin  Godard's  new 
Symphony-Drama,  "Tasso,"  was  liked.  Victorien  Jon- 
cieres  had  a  not  too  flattering  reception  with  his  grand 
opera,  "La  Reine  Berthe."  This  Bertha,  though  royal, 
had  big  feet,  which  in  comic  opera  might  have  been  en 
joyed.  In  April,  1879,  Emma  Thursby  made  an  unan 
nounced  debut  at  the  Pasdeloup  and  achieved  an  Adelina 
Patti  triumph.  She  had  sung  at  the  Chatelet  between 
acts  in  "Le  Desert"  by  Felicien  David;  but  it  was  at  the 
Cirque  d'Hiver  that  she  caught  the  ear  of  the  town. 
She  sang  the  well-known  introduction  and  aria  from 
Mozart's  "Escape  from  the  Seraglio,"  followed  by  the 
Proch  Variations.  The  critics  called  her  "the  American 
Nilsson."  In  Mozart  and  Bellini  she  was  mistress.  Her 
voice  was  pure,  she  sang  in  tune,  and  her  musical  taste 
was  admirable.  The  American  colony  rallied  around  her. 
Thursby  was  celebrated  for  a  month,  and  then  it  rained 
or  snowed.  Paris  forgets  as  easily  as  New  York  or 
Buxtehude. 

I  saw  Charles  Gounod  at  a  Clotilde  Kleeberg  concert. 
An  interesting,  romantic  head.  A  young  barytone,  Jean 
Lasalle,  appeared  in  Massenet's  "Le  Roi  de  Lahore," 
and  won  his  audience.  His  voice  was  fruity  in  its  rich 
ness,  his  presence  picturesque.  The  next  time  I  met  him 
was  twenty  years  after  in  New  York  and  with  the  two 
De  Reszkes.  He  made  one  of  that  celebrated  trio  of 
male  singers  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  during  the  vocally 
splendid  consulship  of  Maurice  Grau.  David's  Ode- 
Symphony,  The  Desert,  was  revived  by  Colonne  at  the 
Chatelet  in  March,  1879.  It  was  my  first  hearing  and 
the  Orientalism  was  delightful,  that  same  colouring  which 


260  STEEPLEJACK 

has  since  become  cloying  in  so  many  compositions  from 
Meyerbeer  to  Bloch.  In  painting  it  is  become  an  abomi 
nation.  Even  Fortuny,  that  incomparable  master  of 
sunshine  and  jewelled  apparel,  palls  because  of  it.  Mo- 
scheles  called  David's  "Desert"  "Frenchified,"  but  the 
Bohemian  virtuoso  was  not  a  judge  of  the  exotic.  I 
found  it  fascinating.  The  stormy  fugue  in  the  Simoon 
episode,  the  chant  of  the  Muezzin  from  the  mosque 
minaret,  and  the  tone-painting  in  the  departure  of  the 
caravan,  chorus  and  orchestra,  was  then  the  last  word 
in  musical  realism.  What  was  my  surprise  to  learn  that 
"Le  Desert"  had  been  sung  by  the  Musical  Fund  Society 
of  Philadelphia  a  quarter  of  a  century  or  more  before  I 
heard  the  work  in  Paris.  Poor  slow  old  Philadelphia ! 

The  churches  of  Paris  often  saw  me  in  their  interiors. 
I  scoured  the  left  bank  as  well  as  the  right  of  the  Seine, 
looking  for  them.  Across  the  river  I  first  heard  Plain- 
Chant  sung  as  it  should  be;  better  sung,  in  fact,  than  at 
St.  Peter's  in  Rome,  as  I  was  to  find  out  in  1905.  St. 
Marie  des  BatignoIIes  was  my  parish,  but  I  went  often 
to  the  services  at  St.  Augustin  or  the  Trinity.  I  at 
tended  a  genuine  midnight  Mass  at  St.  Augustin  on  a 
bitterly  cold  Christmas  Eve,  the  compensation  was  the 
little  feast  of  wine,  rilettes,  bread  and  butter,  which  fol 
lows  in  the  household  of  any  self-respecting  Parisian; 
he  does  not  have  to  be  pious.  Rilettes,  minced  pork,  I 
liked.  It  tasted  like  scrapple,  that  Pennsylvania  product 
so  ancient  that  the  memory  of  man  runneth  not  to  the 
contrary.  I  was  too  busy,  also  too  poor,  to  experience 
the  Parisian  "vice"  in  quest  of  which  good  Americans 
travel  thousands  of  miles.  Of  all  the  deadly  dull  spec 
tacles,  commend  me  to  the  Moulin  Rouge  or  the  Bal 
BuIIier.  When  one  is  young  it's  another  matter;  but  one 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  261 

must  be  very  young  to  enjoy  the  high  kicking  by  a  lot 
of  plain  Janes,  deficient  alike  in  art  or  underclothing. 
The  French  girl  "on  the  loose"  is  not  lovely,  though 
Paris  orders  that  sort  of  thing  better  than  in  London— 
where  the  halting  march  of  the  female  mob  in  Piccadilly 
Circus  is  the  dreariest  picture  in  the  world.  There  was 
more  fun  in  the  impromptu  dances  at  the  barriers  in  the 
suburbs.  Poor  working  girls,  clerks  on  a  lark,  workmen 
in  their  shirt-sleeves,  art  students  and  their  Mimi  or  their 
Aglae,  all  furiously  footing  in  the  abandonment  of  a 
dance  the  elementary  music  made  by  a  screeching  cornet, 
a  rasping  fiddle,  with  the  brassy  sonorities  of  a  piano  as 
a  background — there  was  a  joy  of  life  not  to  be  found  at 
such  mournful  professional  gardens,  the  Jardin  de  Paris, 
the  Folies  Marigny,  those  slaughter-houses  of  love,  where, 
as  Huysmans  wrote,  love  is  slain  at  a  stroke.  Yet  the 
American,  green  as  grass,  whether  he  hails  from  Man 
hattan  or  Manitoba,  accepts  the  stencilled  humbuggery 
of  the  boulevards  and  Montmartre  as  the  "real  thing." 
Life  has  its  terrible  revenges  on  those  who  flout  her  in 
youth.  One  of  them  is  vice  for  the  middle-aged  in  Paris. 
I  studied  with  commendable  diligence.  My  daily 
average  of  piano  practice  was  seldom  less  than  six  hours, 
and  it  often  ran  up  to  the  ridiculous  number  of  ten  and 
more.  No  wonder  my  neighbours  complained.  No 
wonder  they  manifested  their  irritation  by  throwing 
solid  objects  against  my  door.  Unmoved,  I  played  on. 
What  did  I  find  to  play  during  so  many  hours?  Whence 
came  all  the  music?  I  practised  innumerable  finger 
exercises.  I  had  Bach,  Beethoven,  Schumann,  Chopin; 
Brahms  was  to  be  in  the  foreground  years  afterwards. 
I  need  not  add  to  this  list.  It  is  sufficient  to  fill  a  man's 
waking  hours  till  his  last  croak,  isn't  it?  I  have  been 


262  STEEPLEJACK 

warned  about  my  refusal  to  play  cards.  I  can't  play,  I 
don't  like  cards,  nor  yet  billiards,  chess  or  checkers. 
What  will  you  do  with  yourself  when  you  grow  old  if 
you  don't  play  cards?  I'm  old  now,  though  hardly 
tottering,  and  I  never  touch  cards  and  I  have  plenty  to 
occupy  my  mind;  Nor  do  I  golf;  that  last  refuge  for 
the  afflicted  on  whom  old  Uncle  Uric  has  left  his  acid 
visiting  card.  I  play  Bach  in  the  morning.  I  read  Brown 
ing  before  breakfast  (to  cheer  me  up,  a  poetic  fillip)  and  I 
play  other  music  whenever  leisure  allows.  Piano  play 
ing,  modern,  not  the  old-fashioned  finger  touch-and-go- 
method,  employs  every  muscle  in  the  body.  It  is  also 
an  intellectual  exercise  of  the  highest  character,  besides 
liberating  an  appreciable  quantity  of  emotion.  To  play 
the  instrument  in  even  a  mediocre  manner  a  medi 
ocrity  like  myself  demands  a  lifetime.  Hence  if  health, 
wealth,  and  the  neighbours  permit,  I  hope  to  keep  at  my 
music  for  at  least  a  half  century  more. 

Horse  flesh  is  dynamic  food;  it  was  still  eaten  in  hum 
ble  households,  but  it  finally  proved  unpalatable.  I 
knew  it  was  horse  because  of  the  taste  and  colour,  and 
as  it  was  cheap,  though  not  nasty,  I  ate  it,  glad  that  it 
wasn't  dog.  I  became  restless.  Spring  was  with  us,  a 
French  spring,  not  the  rainy,  blustering  weather  which 
invariably  appears  in  America  at  the  beginning  of  the 
vernal  solstice.  The  sun  flooded  the  boulevards.  Birds 
sang  in  the  Pare  Monceau.  The  little  tables  in  front  of 
cafes  overflowed  into  the  street.  At  street  corners  violets 
made  their  debut  of  the  season.  The  caressing  air,  the 
sparkling  humour  of  Parisian  life  had  never  seemed  so 
delectable.  Yet  all  beckoned  me  to  the  country.  While 
my  attendance  at  the  classes  of  the  Conservatoire  had 
been  punctual,  the  place  was  stuffy  and  the  conglomera- 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  263 

tion  of  noises  that  assailed  the  ears  as  we  entered  the 
courtyard  made  my  nerves  revolt.  M.  Mathias  was 
kind,  but  my  admission  must  have  been  irregular.  I 
was  not  an  "official"  pupil,  nor  yet  an  "official"  auditor. 
I  called  on  Theodore  Ritter  at  No.  13  Rue  Taitbout,  but 
after  playing  for  him  the  Bizet  Minuet,  his  simplified 
version,  he  sent  me  to  Leopold  Doutreleau,  whose  home 
was  on  the  Boulevard  Clichy,  No.  34,  as  my  address 
book  tells  me.  I  studied  with  M.  Doutreleau,  both  piano 
and  harmony,  and  as  my  lessons  were  bi-weekly  I  struck 
my  tent,  shipped  my  piano,  and  with  my  inconspicuous 
baggage  went  to  Villiers-Ie-Bel,  nine  and  a  half  miles 
from  town  on  the  Northern  Railway.  You  pass  St. 
Denis  en  route. 

This  village  of  Villiers  rambles  over  the  countryside 
and  was  about  three  hundred  years  old,  and  contained 
two  thousand  inhabitants.  It  is  now  an  important  sub 
urb,  rich  in  villas.  In  the  adjoining  Ecouen  there  is  the 
Chateau  of  the  Montmorenci,  built  during  the  Renais 
sance,  given  to  the  Conde  family  by  the  original  owners, 
and  later  sold  to  the  Prince  de  Joinville.  The  Revolution 
transformed  the  historic  edifice  into  barracks.  A  law 
suit  followed  after  the  Restoration,  which  resulted  in  the 
Joinvilles  getting  the  worst  of  it.  They  removed  the 
stained-glass  windows  and  the  altar  from  the  private 
chapel  to  their  other  residence  at  Chantilly.  But  in  the 
church  near  the  chateau  there  is  still  to  be  seen  a  beau 
tiful  window  which,  so  I  was  told  by  the  village  cure,  was 
whitewashed  during  the  Revolution  to  hide  it  from  the 
iconoclasts  of  '89.  The  Montmorenci  castle  was  in  ex 
cellent  repair  when  I  visited  it  in  1879,  an<^  **  was  aP~ 
proached  through  a  superb  park  avenue  of  trees  a  half- 
mile  long.  This  chateau  and  the  villa  of  Thomas  Cou- 


264  STEEPLEJACK 

ture,  the  painter  on  the  Ecouen  highroad,  were  the  chief 
attractions.  The  station  of  the  Northern  Railroad  is 
two  miles  from  the  village  and,  like  many  French  stations, 
bears  two  names:  Villiers-Ie-Bel-Gonesse.  A  tram 
brought  you  to  the  main  street.  There  was  a  Mayor,  a 
little  fat  fellow,  probably  the  grocer,  and  the  only  place 
of  refreshment  for  man  and  beast  was  kept  by  a  peasant 
named  Bouty.  I  lodged  with  him,  one  flight  up,  in  a 
long,  low  building,  cool  during  the  hottest  days,  as  the 
floors  were  flagstone  and  the  walls  whitewashed.  A  bar 
did  not  exist  beyond  a  sideboard.  There  were  a  few 
tables,  and  the  establishment  literally  shone  with  cleanli 
ness.  My  piano  was  ensconced  in  my  bedroom,  which 
was  also  my  living-room.  It  was  barn-like  in  dimen 
sions.  Therein  I  slept,  played,  read,  ate  my  meals,  when 
I  didn't  eat  in  the  cafe  on  the  ground  floor.  The  cooking 
was  good,  the  fare  abundant,  claret  of  quality  only  cost 
eight  sous  a  litre.  Remember  this  was  forty  years  ago. 
Life  was  gay  and  I  was  satisfied. 

I  recall  the  late  afternoon  I  arrived  as  if  it  were  etched 
on  my  brain-cells.  There  was  a  careless  sky  with  a  few 
large  clouds  rhythmically  clustered.  The  sun,  possibly 
tired  of  staring  at  our  mud-ball,  endeavoured  to  evade 
the  cosmic  time-table  and  set  before  its  hour.  Gentle 
veils  of  mist  were  accomplices  in  this  surreptitious  re 
treat,  yet  on  the  clock  second  our  parent-planet  vanished. 
Bands  of  birds  flew  nestward  in  palpitating  triangular 
patterns,  and  oh  !  the  melancholy  draperies  of  the  willows. 
You  looked  for  the  harps  of  Babylon.  The  air  grew 
chilly.  I  was  glad  to  reach  the  hospitable  doorsill  of 
the  Bouty  auberge.  The  immense  presence  of  the  moon 
was  like  a  silver  porthole  in  the  sky.  My  first  sunrise 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST 265 

was  memorable.  In  the  east,  it  was  a  fanfare  of 
brass;  it  fairly  filled  the  heavens  with  its  furious  rever 
berations.  My  habits  were  exemplary.  (I  escaped  to 
Paris  twice  a  week.)  The  Lefevre  family  lived  hard  by 
in  their  villa.  As  I  have  already  related,  I  saw  the  master 
Couture,  and  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  pupil, 
John  Dunsmore,  a  young  painter  from  Cincinnati. 
There  was  an  artistic  couple  in  the  neighbourhood,  the 
Shearers  from  Reading.  When  I  met  Shearer  we  dis 
cussed  Lauer  or  Barbey  and  their  wholesome  home  brews 
more  than  we  did  the  Barbizon  School.  But  the  name  of 
Millet  was  one  to  conjure  with.  Couture,  who  naturally 
would  admire  the  Poussins,  had  said  that  Millet  was  a 
genius,  unschooled,  yet  a  genius.  Isn't  it  lamentable, 
this  "unschooled"?  I  never  heard  from  his  lips  an  opin 
ion  on  Corot.  The  forest  of  Montmorenci  was  near,  but 
the  country  was  not  so  interesting  as  Grez-sur-Loing,  or 
the  Fontainebleau  forest.  However,  I  was  more  devoted 
to  music  than  landscape.  I  accompanied  Dunsmore  on 
sketching  tours,  but  the  events  of  the  week  were  my 
weekly  visits  to  Paris.  I  had  relinquished  the  lecture 
course  at  the  Sorbonne.  Outdoors  beckoned  me,  and  I 
loafed  and  invited  my  soul  to  drink  and  smoke.  I  was 
a  cigarette-smoker,  cigars  came  much  later,  and  the  pipe 
is  still  to  come.  Coffee,  too,  was  a  dissipation.  I  drank 
it  in  bowls,  black  and  strong.  It  never  kept  me  awake. 
To-day  I  work  on  tea  without  cream,  and  it  is  the  most 
propulsive  stimulant  to  writing.  De  Quincey  called  it 
the  beverage  of  the  intellectual,  but  that  is  a  vain  saying, 
so  is  the  much  despised  barley  and  hop  brew.  But 
beefsteaks,  omelettes,  chickens — where  do  they  taste 
better  than  in  the  French  provinces?  Not  forgetting 
the  generous  wines!  Was  I  homesick?  Not  in  the 


266  STEEPLEJACK 

least.  Philadelphia  was  a  penumbra  on  my  conscious 
ness.  No  doubt  I  should  return,  letters  were  hinting  at 
the  horrid  probability,  but  I  determined  to  put  off  the 
tragedy  as  long  as  I  dared. 

The  professor  who  lectured  in  the  philosophy  classes 
at  the  Sorbonne  was  a  mild,  hairy,  absent-minded  man 
who  reminds  one  now  of  Monsieur  Bergeret  in  the  four 
novels  of  Anatole  France's  Histoire  Contemporaine.  His 
name  I've  forgotten,  but  his  philosophy,  a  rehash  of  Victor 
Cousin,  an  eclectic  thinker,  I  do  remember.  It  was 
harmless  and  antiquated,  the  thought  of  this  school,  quite 
in  key  with  the  precepts  of  art  inculcated  at  the  Beaux- 
Arts,  or  the  venerable  pedagogic  methods  of  the  Con 
servatoire.  Official  art  and  literature  in  Paris  are,  of 
necessity,  antipathetic  to  novelty.  Yet  Balzac  and  Zola 
tried  to  enter  the  French  Academy;  Balzac  for  the  glory, 
Zola,  as  he  naively  confessed,  because  the  coveted  chair 
and  palms  would  increase  the  sale  of  his  books.  These 
contradictions  puzzle.  Certainly  a  central  and  invested 
authority  in  matters  artistic  and  literary  is  to  be  com 
mended.  Matthew  Arnold  believed  in  the  Institute;  but 
so  many  wild  flowers  of  genius  bloomed  in  the  field  and 
never  could  have  been  transplanted  to  the  dry  prim-pots  of 
the  Academy  that  one's  belief  is  confused  when  confronted 
by  such  a  cloud  of  witnesses.  The  big  men  in  French 
literature  and  art  were  not  officially  welcomed;  even  there 
within  the  walls  they  would  have  prospered  the  same  if 
they  had  not  knocked  for  admission.  Genius  comes  not 
by  compulsion. 

In  the  Salon  of  1879  were  pictures  worth  visiting. 
There  were  Degas,  and  his  pupil,  Mary  Cassatt — one  of 
the  distinguished  painters  of  America,  a  Philadelphian, 
and  the  sister  of  A.  J.  Cassatt.  There  were  Raffaelli,  and 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  267 

the  sculptor,  Bartholome,  whose  monumental  tomb  in 
Pere-Lachaise,  was  a  starting  point  for  Saint-Gaudens, 
and  the  tomb  he  executed  near  Washington.  I  first  saw 
Mesdag's  marines,  that  cordial  old  Dutchman  whose 
gallery  at  The  Hague  is  so  rich  in  modern  French  art. 
Fantin-Latour  was  hung;  Whistler  owes  much  to  him. 
Gustave  Moreau,  whose  alembicated  art  so  fascinated  me 
at  the  Moreau  Museum  in  1900,  showed  several  canvases. 
Flandrin  I  disliked.  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  his  "Prodigal 
Son"  and  "Jeunes  filles  au  bord  de  la  mer"  were  on  view. 
Gustave  Dore  was  a  disappointment,  his  "Orpheus"  re 
vealed  his  incompetency  as  a  painter,  original  as  are  his 
designs  (and  a  word  might  be  said  for  John  Martin,  the 
English  mezzotinter,  whose  apocalyptic  imagination  in 
his  biblical  plates  influenced  Dore).  Jean  Gigoux,  a 
painter  who  was  in  intimate  converse  with  the  wife  of 
Balzac,  when  he  was  dying  in  another  room — you  think 
of  George  Sand  with  Alfred  de  Musset  and  her  Pagello 
at  Venice — exhibited  several  mediocre  canvases.  (Read 
Choses  Vues,  prose  by  Victor  Hugo,  as  to  the  Balzac  scan 
dal,  since  vigorously  denied  by  Gigoux.)  Cabanel's  "  Birth 
of  Venus'*  picture — not  the  easel — at  the  Philadelphia 
Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts — an  allegorical  panel  with  nudes. 
The  Venus  looked  like  an  inflated  balloon.  Roll,  Lefebvre, 
Bouguereau,  Duez,  Van  Beers — his  portrait  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  then  in  the  plenitude  of  her  power,  a  golden 
voice  at  the  Frangais — and  the  entire  official  list  were 
represented.  Around  the  corner,  figuratively  speaking, 
were  Monet,  Manet,  Pissarro,  Sisley,  Berthe  Morizot — 
the  greatest  woman  painter  of  France  and  probably  the 
greatest  in  history,  for  what  were  Judith  Leyster  or  Vigee- 
Lebrun  in  comparison?  and  the  sister-in-law  of 
Manet.  Guillaumin,  Caillebotte,  and  Zandomenechi 


268  STEEPLEJACK 

were  painting,  but  not  recognised  —  which  was  the 
luckiest  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  their  art. 
Degas  was  in  the  official  Salon  because  of  the  rectitude  of 
his  design,  but  not  because  of  his  original  vision  or  his 
disconcerting  subjects;  chiefly  race  horses,  ballet-girls, 
and  ugly  women  washing  in  attitudes  both  batrachian 
and  serpentine;  of  the  operatic  voluptuousness  of  Caba- 
nel  there  was  no  trace  in  his  work.  Like  Flaubert, 
Edgar  Degas  had  the  eye  of  a  surgeon;  he  dissected,  did 
not  comment.  We  look  in  vain  for  a  suggestion  of  the 
prurient,  or  the  diabolic  lustfulness  of  Felicien  Rops. 
The  humans  of  Degas  are  vital  charts  created  by  an 
analytical  intellect.  Cerebral,  not  emotional.  And  he 
was  a  master  painter,  a  classic  before  he  died. 

At  the  Salon  des  Independants,  in  1880,  the  revolution 
ists  had  their  revenge.  Impressionism  reigned  and  Paris 
sniggered.  The  Durand-Ruel  Galleries  were  a  rallying- 
point  for  the  rebels.  Caillebotte  was  a  difficult  dose  to 
swallow,  but  you  had  to  or  offend  the  others,  just  as 
to-day  Cezanne  must  be  accepted,  else  you  are  an  ob 
scurantist.  But  there  can  be  no  comparison  made  be 
tween  the  patient  genius  of  Aix-en-Provence  and  the 
amateur  who  bequeathed  to  the  Luxembourg  that  precious 
acorn  of  impressionistic  canvases  which  finally  grew  into 
a  towering  tree;  now  a  tree  whose  shade  is  become  bale 
ful  to  students,  as  is  the  poisonous  Manchineel  tree  in 
"  L'Africaine."  Forain  and  Raffaelli  in  the  first  flush  of 
their  exciting  and  truly  Parisian  art  were  a  treasure- 
trove.  Forain  had  studied  with  Gerome,  but  soon  left 
him  for  Manet,  where  his  satirical  talent  burgeoned  in  a 
congenial  atmosphere.  Mary  Cassatt  was  a  force.  I 
saw  the  portrait  of  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  brushed  by 
Bracquemond,  which  had  the  hard  relief  of  a  Holbein. 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  269 

(I  was  present  at  the  obsequies  of  the  subtle  French 
prosateur  and  amateur  of  exquisite  art  in  Paris,  1896.) 
What  prose-master  has,  in  a  style,  deliberate  and  per 
sonal,  pinned  to  paper  such  ephemeral  sensations,  and 
the  most  fugacious  of  nuances,  as  the  Goncourts  ?  Degas 
is  their  antilogue  in  painting.  And  compared  with  Claude 
Monet,  what  official  painter  of  his  time  could  touch  his 
Mozartean  serenity  of  mood,  or  his  landscapes  drenched 
in  rainbow  mists!  His  "Gare  des  BatignoIIes,"  after 
wards  hung  in  the  Luxembourg,  was  the  first  attempt  to 
deal  with  a  certain  joyless  phase  of  life.  The  yawning 
mouth  of  the  railroad  station,  the  rails  slippery  with  wet, 
shunting  of  many  cars,  plumes  of  steam,  the  myriad 
of  facts  put  before  us  synthetically  abbreviated,  and  en 
veloped  in  an  atmosphere  that  you  could  see,  smell, 
taste,  this  canvas  was  a  contribution  to  modern  art  as 
important  in  its  intentions  as  in  its  omissions. 

I  have  always  envisaged  Claude  Monet  as  the  only 
Impressionist,  as  I  believe  that  Charles  Baudelaire  was 
the  greatest  French  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century — 
Victor  Hugo  excepted,  and  only  Hugo — and  that  the  su 
preme  realistic  novel  is  L*  Education  Sentimentale  by 
Flaubert.  But  the  chief  body  of  criticism  rules  other 
wise.  Baudelaire  is  "immoral" — what  has  morality 
to  do  with  art?  (don't  ask  this  question  of  a  literature 
"professor").  The  public  reads  the  vulgarisation  of 
Flaubert  and  Manet  in  Zola.  Oh !  Manet  is  already  old- 
fashioned.  Zola  himself  speaks  of  "le  bonapartisme 
sentimentale"  which  precipitated  the  downfall  of  the 
Second  Empire,  the  Bonapartism  which  had  proved  the 
undoing  of  a  generation  patterned  after  his  lurid  writings. 
The  daylight  clearness  of  Flaubert,  and  the  delicate 


27o  STEEPLEJACK 

arabesques  of  the  De  Goncourts,  was  followed  by  the 
sooty  extravagances  and  violent  melodrama  of  Zola  and 
his  disciples.  It  is  all  dead  and  forgotten  in  Europe. 
The  Russians :  Dostoievsky,  Tolstoy,  Turgenev,  Tchekov, 
Gorky,  and  Artzibachev  intervened.  The  art  of  fiction 
has  become  finer,  and  more  spiritual,  especially  in  Eng 
land,  where  the  influence  of  Henry  James  is  more  potent 
than  in  his  native  land.  But  dear  progressive  America 
is  still  in  the  throes  of  a  naturalism  which  died  at  the  birth 
of  Zola's  vilest  offspring,  La  Terre.  Mr.  Howells  set  the 
fashion  of  realism,  a  tempered  realism,  though  he  stemmed 
from  Jane  Austen  and  Turgenev.  His  is  the  art  of  the 
miniature  painter.  Frank  Norris  followed  him,  and 
Stephen  Crane,  both  at  a  long  distance,  preceded  by 
Henry  B.  Fuller  (in  his  With  the  Procession  and  The 
Cliff-Dwellers).  Zola  was  not  a  realist  merely  be 
cause  he  dealt  with  certain  unpleasant  facts.  He  was  a 
myopic  romanticist  writing  in  a  style  both  violent  and 
tumefied,  the  history  of  his  soul  in  the  latrines  of  life.  Life 
as  a  whole  he  never  saw  steadily;  it  was  for  him  more  like 
a  succession  of  lurid  lantern-slides.  If,  in  the  Court  of 
Realism,  Flaubert  is  king,  then  Zola  ranks  only  as  an 
excavator 

But  I  must  vault  back  to  my  early  Paris;  Paris  which 
is  now,  as  it  always  was,  the  reservoir  of  spiritual  and 
artistic  certitudes.  I  spoke  of  Degas,  and  Manet,  Monet, 
Pissarro,  Sisley,  and  the  other  Impressionists.  I  must 
not  forget  two  names,  each  important  in  his  own  depart 
ment,  Renoir  and  Toulouse-Lautrec,  the  first  a  rare  mas 
ter,  the  second  an  incomplete  genius  but  one  whose  im 
print  on  the  art  of  the  generation  succeeding  him  has  been 
marked.  Auguste  Renoir  still  lives;  old,  semi-crippled, 
an  octogenarian,  yet  painting  every  day  pictures  that 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  271 

are  astonishingly  strong.  No  need  to  pardon  their 
weaknesses,  there  are  none.  Vivacious,  lyrical,  happy, 
his  work  never  betrayed  a  hint  of  the  bitter  psychology 
of  his  friend,  Edgar  Degas.  His  nudes  are  pagan,  child- 
women,  full  of  life's  joy,  sinuous,  animal,  unreasoning. 
His  genre  tableaux  are  personal  enough,  the  luminous 
envelope,  the  gorgeous  riot  of  opposed  tones,  and  delicious 
dissonances  literally  transfigure  commonplace  themes. 
In  his  second  manner  his  affinities  with  Claude  Monet,  and 
Impressionism  generally,  are  easily  noted;  but  his  land 
scapes  are  more  atmospheric,  division  of  tones  invariably 
practised.  Everything  swims  in  an  aerial  bath.  His 
portraits  are  the  personification  of  frankness.  The  touch 
is  broad,  flowing.  He  was  the  first  of  the  Impressionistic 
portrait-painters  to  apply  unflinchingly  the  methods  of 
Manet  and  Monet  to  the  human  face — Manet,  while 
painting  in  clear  tones  (what  magic  there  is  in  his  golden 
brush)  seldom  employed  the  hatchings  of  colours,  except 
in  his  landscapes,  and  only  after  1870,  when  he  came 
under  the  influence  of  Monet.  In  his  third  manner, 
Renoir  combines  his  two  earlier  techniques,  painting  with 
the  palette-knife  and  divided  tones.  Flowers,  barbaric 
designs  for  rugs,  fantastic,  vibrating  waters,  these  appear 
in  the  long  and  varied  series  of  canvases  in  which  we  see 
Paris  enjoying  itself  at  Bougival,  on  the  Isle  Puteaux, 
dancing  near  the  heights  of  Montmartre,  strolling  among 
the  trees  at  Armenonville;  Paris  quivering  with  holiday 
joys,  Paris  in  outdoor  humour;  and  not  a  vicious  or  dis 
cordant  note  in  all  this  lucid  psychology  of  sport  and  love. 
The  lively  chap  who,  in  shirt-sleeves,  dances  with  the 
jolly  plump  sales  girl,  the  sunlight  dripping  through  the 
vivid  green  of  the  leaves,  dazzling  the  edges  of  profiles, 
nose-tips,  fingers,  this  human  pair  are  not  the  sullen  work- 


272  STEEPLEJACK 

people  of  Zola  or  Toulouse-Lautrec,  nor  are  the  girls  akin 
to  the  "Soeurs  Vatard"  of  Huysmans  or  the  "  human 
document"  of  Degas.  Renoir  is  not  abysmally  profound; 
to  him  life  is  not  a  curse  or  a  kiss,  as  we  used  to  say  in  the 
days  of  Swinburne.  He  is  a  painter  of  joyous  surfaces, 
and  he  is  an  incorrigible  optimist.  He  is  also  a  poet. 
The  poet  of  air,  sunshine,  beautiful  women — shall  we 
ever  forget  his  protrait  of  Jeanne  Samary  ?  A  pantheist, 
withal  a  poet,  and  a  direct  descendant  in  the  artistic  line 
of  Watteau,  Boucher,  Monticelli,  with  an  individual  touch 
of  mundane  grace  superadded.  In  a  private  collection 
near  Overbrook,  Pa.,  there  may  be  seen  the  finest  group 
of  Renoirs  in  this  country. 

To  a  gloomier  tune  goes  the  art  of  Count  de  Toulouse- 
Lautrec.  In  it  is  the  perverse  genius  of  an  unhappy 
man,  who  owes  allegiance  to  no  one  but  Degas  and  the 
Japanese.  At  Paris  I  visited  the  first  exhibition  devoted 
to  his  work.  His  astonishing  qualities  of  invention, 
draughtsmanship,  and  a  diabolic  ingenuity  in  sounding  the 
sinister  music  of  decayed  souls,  never  before  had  been 
assembled  under  one  roof.  Power  he  has  and  a  saturnine 
hatred  of  his  wretched  models.  Toulouse-Lautrec  had 
not  the  impersonal  vision  of  Zola,  nor  the  disenchant 
ing  irony  of  Degas.  He  loathed  the  crew  of  repul 
sive  nightbirds  which  he  pencilled  and  painted  in  old 
Montmartre  before  the  foreign  invasion  diluted  its  native 
spontaneous  wickedness.  Now  a  resort  for  easily  bam 
boozled  English  and  Americans,  the  earlier  Montmartre 
was  a  rich  mine  for  the  artistic  explorers.  Raffaelli  went 
there,  and  Renoir,  but  Raffaelli  was  impartially  Impres 
sionistic,  and  Renoir  was  ever  ravished  by  a  stray  shaft 
of  sunshine  flecking  the  faces  of  the  dancers  and  recorded 
in  charming  tints.  Not  as  these  men  was  Toulouse- 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  273 

Lautrec.  Combined  with  chronic  pessimism  he  possessed 
a  divination  of  character  that  if  he  had  lived  longer  and 
worked  harder  might  have  placed  him  near  Degas.  He 
is  savant.  His  sensitive  line  proclaims  the  master. 
Unlike  Aubrey  Beardsley,  his  Japanese  predilections 
never  seduced  him  into  the  decoratively  abnormal.  We 
see  the  Moulin  Rouge  with  its  parasites,  La  Goulue  and 
her  vile  retainers.  The  brutality  is  contemptuous,  a 
blow  struck  full  in  the  face.  Vice  is  harshly  arraigned. 
This  Frenchman's  art  makes  of  Hogarth  a  pleasing 
preacher,  so  drastic  is  it,  so  deliberately  searching  in  its 
insults.  And  never  exaggeration  or  burlesque.  These 
brigands  and  cutthroats,  pimps  and  pickpurses  are  set 
before  us  without  bravado,  without  the  genteel  glaze  of 
the  sentimental  painter,  without  the  attempt  to  call  a 
prostitute  a  cocotte.  His  sitters  with  their  cavernous 
glare,  their  emaciated  figures  and  debauched  expression 
are  a  commentary  on  the  life  of  the  region.  Toulouse- 
Lautrec  is  like  a  page  torn  from  Ecclesiastes. 

With  the  years  the  arts  have  become  too  explicit,  all 
except  the  art  of  music;  even  tonal  dramas  of  Verdi  and 
Wagner  tell  their  story  without  the  consoling  veils  of 
ambiguity.  In  literature,  Browning  was  never  obscure 
in  intention;  he  tried  to  send  a  multiple  message  over  a 
single  wire,  he  packed  too  many  ideas  in  a  line;  but 
Stephane  Mallarme  deliberately  wrought  a  poetic  art 
hermetic,  like  a  flash  seen  in  a  mirror  at  midnight,  charged 
with  subtle  premonitions  of  music  unheard,  the  "silent 
thunder  afloat  in  the  leaves,"  faint  adumbrations  of  a 
dream-prose  or  verse  for  those  ten  superior  persons  scat 
tered  throughout  the  universe,  as  Huysmans  said.  I  have 
yet  to  meet  any  one  of  this  sacred  ten,  this  spiritual  legion 


274  STEEPLEJACK 

of  Thebes.  As  Arthur  Symons  has  shown  us,  even  Mal- 
larme  is  not  wholly  cryptic.  He  has  more  than  ten 
readers,  scattered  between  two  or  three  clubs  in  this 
city.  Whistler  was  once  an  enigma.  His  evasive 
art  when  finally  cornered  proved  to  lack  substantiality, 
robust  vision,  a  vigorous  brush.  But  a  musically  elo 
quent  painter.  In  orchestral  music  alone  do  the  secrets 
of  the  gods  remain  inviolate — almost,  for  we  are  become 
gods  ourselves  and  we  have  learned  to  interpret  their 
tone-language.  Claude  Debussy  was  the  newest  com 
poser  to  take  refuge  in  a  lovely  symbolism.  What  are 
the  Cubists  but  searchers  after  an  abstract  that  ordinary 
representation  makes  crudely  obvious.  Dancing  in  its 
highest  estate  is  winged  metaphysics.  Sculpture  and 
architecture  are  the  most  cruelly  exposed  of  the  arts; 
yet  in  an  archaic  symbolism  such  as  Epstein's,  or  in  the 
cold  polished  logical  ferocity  of  Brancusi,  sculpture  evades 
the  inexorable  linear  law.  Rodin  shivered  the  syn 
tax  of  stone,  only  to  replace  it  with  his  owrn  sensuous 
rhetoric.  Acting  has  its  plasticity  in  attitude  and  ges 
ture;  occasionally  we  see  a  soul  emerge  from  that  prison 
house  of  the  theatre,  more  ineluctable  than  the  canons  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians.  We  seldom  encounter  a  Duse,  a 
Booth,  a  Salvini,  a  Modjeska,  Sada-Yacco,  or  a  Sarah 
Bernhardt  who  were  supreme  because  they  incarnated 
the  poet's  creations  and  not  because  of  their  professional 
technique.  When  we  saw,  heard  them,  the  acceleration 
of  our  interior  life  became  almost  intolerable  because  of 
its  poignancy.  To  comprehend  and  feel,  as  in  a  blinding 
simultaneous  vision,  a  synthesis  of  the  senses,  what 
French  psychologists  call  "  multanimity "  (as  opposed  to 
unanimity),  is  the  dream  of  a  few  advanced  artists. 
Nevertheless,  mystery  in  art  is  its  chief  virtue.  Is  such 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  275 

an  ideal  to  be  compassed?  How  unhappy  people  would 
be  if  they  were  really  happy.  Supreme  art,  always  about 
to  be,  but  never  is  quite  achieved.  .  .  . 

Later,  when  in  Italy,  I  went  to  Bologna,  to  see  a  pianist, 
conductor,  composer,  Giuseppe  Martucci,  the  director  of 
the  Conservatory  there.  For  this  Neapolitan  musician 
I  entertained  much  admiration  after  hearing  him  play  the 
piano  part  of  his  own  B  flat  minor  concerto  in  true  vir 
tuoso  style,  and  also  old  Italian  music  by  Scarlatti.  I 
determined  to  seek  his  advice.  His  concerto  with  his 
own  changes  and  special  fingering,  I  have  preserved. 
It  is  very  difficult.  Runs  of  double-sixths  abound.  As 
a  pianist  he  was  the  only  one  who  could  play  double- 
sixths  like  Rosenthal.  A  brilliant,  rather  than  an  emo 
tional  artist,  he  was  a  conductor  of  high  rank.  I  pre 
ferred  Sgambati,  of  Rome,  in  chamber  music,  but  I  have 
pleasant  souvenirs  of  Martucci.  Returning  to  Paris  by 
a  roundabout  route,  I  crossed  the  lovely  Lake  Con 
stance  on  a  cool,  clear  September  morning.  This  lake 
is  as  green  as  fabled  Erin,  so  green  that  the  bellies  of 
birds  hovering  about  its  bosom  are  tinged  with  emerald 
tints.  The  distant  prospect  of  the  Alps  is  enlivening,  but 
it  is  the  colour  of  the  water,  its  soothing  smoothness,  and 
the  pink  mist  garbing  the  base  of  the  mountains  that  woo 
the  eye.  The  transition  to  Geneva  is  easy.  Three  days 
in  this  city  by  the  lake  bred  dreams  of  Italy.  The  weather 
was  warm,  the  sky  soft,  and  the  River  Rhone  a  celestial 
blue.  I  went  to  Ferney,  saw  the  house  of  Voltaire;  to 
the  Saleve,  and  wondered  if  Mount  Blanc  touched  the 
tall  stars;  to  the  villas  of  Byron,  Josephine,  and  Lola 
Montez;  to  Rousseau's  birthplace,  to  the  island  with  his 
statue;  to  the  cathedral  where  Calvin  preached,  and 


276  STEEPLEJACK 

finally  to  Montreux,  passing  Noyon,  Merges,  where 
Paderewski  lived  afterwards,  Evian,  Ouchy,  Vevay, 
Clarens;  then  I  found  myself  again  in  Paris. 

I  proceeded  to  Auteuil,  dear,  old,  delightful,  restful 
Auteuil.  There,  said  I  to  my  soul,  I  shall  find  the  rest 
which  passeth  all  understanding.  " Vance,"  I  wrote  to 
the  poet  Thompson,  "find  me  a  poetic  spot  near  the  house 
of  Goncourt,  where  I  may  sit  on  the  balcony  and  hear 
the  frogs  parse  the  more  irregular  verbs  in  their  sweet 
mother-tongue."  He  found  it,  did  Vance  Thompson. 
Never  shall  I  forget  my  first  night  in  historic  Auteuil. 
From  my  window  I  heard  and  saw  the  trains  of  the 
Chemin  de  Per  of  the  Ceinture  which  girdles  Paris. 
They  run  every  five  minutes  and  make  more  noise  than 
may  be  heard  at  Thirty-fourth  Street  and  Broadway. 
If  I  tried  to  sleep  I  was  awakened  by  rude  petulant  voices 
which  desperately  wrangled  choice  phrases,  "Cochon" 
"Cornichon"  "Homard,"  and  again  Cornichon  (as  if  one 
should  say,  pig,  pickle,  lobster),  were  wafted  to  my  en 
raptured  ears.  I  was  in  the  "pickle"  the  other  blind 
drunk.  Then  the  climax  most  telling,  an  excerpt  from 
municipal  orchestration.  A  brutal  machine,  a  steam 
roller,  marched  to  and  fro  for  six  hours,  horridly  crunch 
ing  the  stones  and  gravel  prepared  for  its  midnight 
luncheon.  It  settled  my  hash.  I  dressed,  descended, 
went  across  the  street  to  the  police  station  on  Boulevard 
Exelmans  and  talked  cigarette  French  to  the  amiable 
officers  on  duty.  The  next  day  I  told  Vance  that  his 
frogs  were  railroad  frogs,  and  he  retorted  by  taking  me 
over  the  district  and  filling  me  to  the  eyes  with  local 
anecdotes.  He  lived  there  in  the  Hameau  Boileau,  a 
retired  hamlet,  heavily  wooded,  containing  a  half-dozen 
villas.  His  own  was  the  original  Boileau  house  bought 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  277 

by  the  poet  for  8,000  livres  in  1685.  On  the  Rue  Singer, 
Benjamin  Franklin  lived;  further  down  there  is  a  street 
named  after  him.  Madame  Helvetius  lived  there. 
Franklin  as  well  as  Turgot  wanted  to  marry  her. 

A  perfect  nest  of  artistic  memories  is  Auteuil;  Lamar- 
tine,  Victor  Hugo,  Proudhon,  the  philosopher-economist 
— he  only  died  in  1861  at  No.  10,  Rue  de  Passy, — Balzac, 
Jules  Janin,  Spontini,  and  Rossini,  who  founded  a  home 
for  old  musicians,  Maison  Rossini,  lived  in  the  neighbour 
hood;  Sandeau  and  George  Sand  once  kept  house  at 
Passy.  De  Musset  lived  in  Auteuil;  Gavarni,  Halevy, 
the  famous  actress,  Sophie  Arnould,  were  there,  and  the 
Goncourts  lived  at  67  Boulevard  Montmorenci — in  the 
same  park  where  Vance  Thompson  was.  There,  too, 
is  the  Pool  of  Auteuil,  a  most  poetic  spot  with  willows 
weeping  over  its  green  waters.  Hugo,  Turgenev,  Flau 
bert,  Maupassant,  George  Sand,  Zola,  and  Goncourt  sat 
at  its  triste  borders,  and  no  doubt  wondered  when  dinner 
would  be  ready.  Poets  and  artists  are  dreamers,  but 
not  on  empty  stomachs.  It  was  Mrs.  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  who  said  of  Henry  Thoreau  that  he  loved  and 
led  a  lonely  life,  but  he  never  went  beyond  hearing  of  the 
dinner-bell. 

Rossini's  ashes  are  not  in  Pere  Lachaise  or  in  Florence; 
a  joker  to  the  last  he  had  requested  that  they  should  not 
bury  him  in  a  Jewish  cemetery.  Naturally  I  often  went  to 
Pere  Lachaise.  There  lies  my  beloved  Chopin — his  heart 
is  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Cross,  Warsaw,  and  his 
statue  and  house  that  stood  in  his  birthplace,  Zelazowa- 
Wola,  Poland,  were  destroyed  during  the  great  war  by 
Russian  Cossacks.  The  Paris  cemetery  is  a  most  inter 
esting  place  for  one  with  a  historic  imagination.  I  was 
never  carried  away  by  the  graceless  Clesinger  memorial 


278  STEEPLEJACK 

to  Chopin.  The  tombs  of  Abelard  and  Heloise  do  not 
mean  much  to  the  present  generation,  but  the  composer 
of  "Carmen"  is  there,  and  the  Countess  D'AgouIt,  the 
mother  of  Liszt's  three  children,  and  Bellini,  and  Moliere; 
but  let  us  go  to  Montmartre,  where  Heine  sleeps  and  the 
Goncourts,  Henry  Beyle — better  known  as  Stendhal — 
Ernest  Renan,  Theophile  Gautier,  prince  of  marmoreal 
prose,  Carlotta  Patti,  and  Dumas  fils.  The  grave  of  Ada 
Isaacs  Menken,  poet,  actress,  bareback  rider,  the  greatest 
of  Mazeppas,  is  there.  Among  her  various  marriages 
was  a  brief  alliance  with  John  C.  Heenan,  the  prize 
fighter.  I  think  Ada  hailed  from  New  Orleans,  and  was 
not  a  Jewess  despite  her  Jewish  name.  Her  letters  to  the 
American  writer,  Hattie  Tyng-Griswold,  published  after 
the  death  of  the  notorious  and  unhappy  woman,  revealed 
another  side  of  her  temperament.  Extracts  were  printed 
in  the  newspapers.  She  was  a  Mazeppa  doubled  by  a 
Sappho.  Her  slender  volume  of  verse  entitled  "  Infelice," 
was  credited  in  part  to  Swinburne,  but  that  is  nonsense. 
The  poet  of  Anactoria,  while  he  sympathised  with  Les 
bian  ladies,  never  wrote  bad  poetry.  But  he  knew  her 
well  enough  to  be  photographed  on  the  same  plate.  I 
have  a  copy.  I  have  also  a  photograph  of  Ada  sitting 
on  the  luxurious  lap  of  the  elder  Dumas.  She  was  as 
versatile  in  her  affections  as  in  her  talents.  A  strikingly 
handsome  woman  according  to  the  report  of  her  day, 
her  figure  being  the  "envy  of  sculptors."  I  confess  it  is 
difficult  to  see  the  beauty  in  her  photographs.  A  tor 
mented,  morbid  soul,  a  virile  soul  in  a  feminine  body, 
she  led  a  stormy  passionate  life,  and,  like  Lola  Montez, 
died  neglected  by  the  world.  On  her  tomb  are  the  words 
"Thou  Knowest!" 
The  real  Paris  is  not  the  city  of  junketing  visitors, 


BOHEMIA'S  SEA-COAST  279 

the  Paris  that  clusters  or  once  clustered  about  the  grand 
boulevards,  Maxim's,  the  hill  of  Montmartre — all  mem 
ories,  for  Paris  was  spiritually  reborn  in  1914 — and  other 
absurd  places.  No,  the  real  Paris  is  the  Louvre,  with 
its  glorious  marbles  and  canvases,  the  Luxembourg,  its 
palaces  and  cemeteries,  above  all  its  noble  churches.  If 
ever  I  became  religious  to  Paris  I  should  flee.  It  is  a  city 
where  they  worship  artistically.  Religion  is  poetic  in 
Europe. 


VII 

AT  MAXIM'S 

I  spoke  of  Maxim's  on  the  Rue  Royale.  It  wasn't  in 
existence  when  I  first  went  to  Paris.  Much  later  I  spent 
one  of  the  jolliest  nights  of  my  life  there,  and  notwith 
standing  Constable,  the  English  landscapist,  who  declared 
that  a  good  thing  can  never  be  done  twice,  I  propose 
now  to  retell  the  story  which  is  in  The  Pathos  of  Distance, 
but  this  time  I  shall  give  the  true  names  of  the  dramatis 
personae;  some  are  reverend,  grave,  and  bearded  signers, 
perhaps  married;  and  one  at  least  is  dead,  and  his  death 
was  a  loss  to  American  literature,  for  he  had  the  voice  and 
vision  of  an  authentic  poet.  I  mean  George  Cabot  Lodge, 
the  son  of  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  United  States  Senator. 
It  would  be  hardly  fitting  to  prelude  a  rake-helly  anec 
dote  by  dwelling  upon  the  virtues  of  this  lamented  young 
man's  poetic  art.  That  I  shall  attempt  later  on.  His 
friend,  Joseph  TrumbuII  Stickney,  another  gifted  youth, 
also  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  a  prize  winner.  He  was  with 
us.  The  affair  came  about  in  this  fashion:  in  company 
with  a  friend  from  Boston,  who  was  studying  organ  con 
ducting  and  composition,  Wallace  Goodrich,  by  name, 
we  heard  a  fair  performance  of  "The  Valkyre,"  at  the 
opera  where  I  had  earlier  "discovered"  the  barytone, 
Maurice  Renaud,  a  vocally  gorgeous  Wolfram  in  "Tann- 
hauser" — and  naturally  we  were  thirsty.  Behind  the 
opera  house  at  the  junction  of  the  streets  called  Gluck 
and  Halevy  was  the  Cafe  Monferino.  It  was  directed  by 
an  Italian  and  a  Frenchman — who  had  been  a  head- 

280 


AT  MAXIM'S  281 


waiter  at  Delmonico's,  New  York.  The  cuisine  was 
Italian  and  French,  and  you  could  get  Viennese  pastry. 
Pilsner  beer  of  the  purest  made  the  Monferino  a  paradise 
for  artists  and  writers.  The  Figaro's  office  was  around 
the  corner,  and  I  often  saw  the  editorial  staff,  for 
the  most  part  bearded  and  wearing  silk  hats  during  the 
dog-days,  sitting  for  hours,  sipping  the  blond  brew,  ges 
ticulating  and  violently  thinking  aloud.  Here  it  was  I 
interviewed  an  ex-King  of  Servia;  more  of  him  anon.  I 
asked  Goodrich  if  he,  too,  was  athirst.  Yes,  he  was. 
Soon  the  tempo  became  swifter.  We  drank  from  huge 
mugs  for  several  hours  while  discussing  Wagnerian  lead 
ing-motives.  It  was  midnight  long  past  when  Goodrich 
exclaimed:  "Let's  go  to  Maxim's!"  "To  any  spot  in 
Paris,"  I  answered,  "where  recollections  of  a  French 
opera  can  be  drowned  in  amber,  as  is  the  fly  of  the 
fable."  We  drove  to  Maxim's,  which,  as  any  church- 
going  American  knows,  is  not  far  from  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  As  we  forced  our  powerful  personalities 
through  a  mob  of  men,  women,  waiters,  and  crashing 
furious  music  I  said:  "Lo!  art  thou  in  Arcadia?" 

Goodrich  soon  spied  a  table  surrounded  by  a  gang  of 
young  fellows  howling:  "Constant!  Constant!"  I 
wasn't  foolish  enough  to  interpret  this  combination  of 
imprecation  and  cajolement  as  an  adjective;  yet  I  couldn't 
at  first  see  Constant.  I  was  speedily  introduced  to  six 
of  my  countrymen,  mostly  hailing  from  New  York, 
and  after  solemnly  bowing  and  suspiciously  staring  at 
their  friend  Goodrich,  they  quite  as  solemnly  shook  hands 
one  with  the  other,  then  yelled  in  unison:  "Constant."  I 
rejoiced.  My  heart  told  me  that  I  was  with  the  right 
crowd.  Constant  appeared,  and  as  he  bowed  his  round, 
sleek  head  for  the  "commande,"  I  tried  to  untangle  the 


282  STEEPLEJACK 

fritilant  delirium  encompassing  me.  A  red-haired  woman, 
who  looked  like  a  big,  salacious  Cheret  poster,  furiously 
waltzed  and  sprawled  and  slid  as  the  gypsy  band  vertig 
inously  played.  She  had  in  tow  a  little  chap  whose  eyes 
bulged  with  joy  and  realised  ambition.  He  possessed 
the  largest  lady  in  the  building;  what  more  could  he  ex 
pect  !  The  band  was  wonderful.  It  ripped  and  buzzed 
with  rhythmic  rubato  rage,  and  tore  Czardas  passion  to 
ragtime  tatters.  It  leered,  sang,  swooned,  sighed,  snarled, 
sobbed,  and  leaped.  Its  leader,  a  dark  gypsy,  with  a  wide, 
bold  glance,  swayed  as  he  smote  the  strings  with  his  bow, 
and  I  was  shocked  when  he  collected  coin,  plate  in  hand. 
At  the  tables  sat  women  and  men.  The  moral  weather 
was  scarlet,  the  toilettes  admirable.  Occasionally  there 
strayed  in  British  tourists,  but  if  they  had  their 
women  folk  with  them  they  fled;  if  not,  they  remained. 
I  saw  nothing  objectionable;  the  establishment  simply 
overflowed  with  good-humoured  deviltry.  The  tone  was 
unmistakably  scarlet,  and  as  the  night  wore  apace  it 
became  a  rich  carmilion — a  colour  said  to  be  a  com 
pound  of  carmine  and  vermilion;  also  lobster,  cham 
pagne,  and  rouge.  Wallace  suddenly  cried :  " Constant! 
Constant!"  The  singing  ceased  at  our  table.  "Let's 
get  a  room  with  a  piano."  "Constant !  Constant !"'  we 
screamed  and  soon  the  active  Constant  conducted  us 
up-stairs  into  an  apartment  with  a  shabby  upright  piano. 
Beer  had  become  a  watery  nuisance,  champagne  was  or 
dered,  and  my  voice  trembled  as  I  gave  the  order,  for  I 
knew  the  ways  of  young  America  when  in  Paris.  We 
had  already  absorbed  enough  to  float  a  three-masted 
schooner. 

Constant  left  us  after  making  a  piteous  appeal  not  to 
awaken  Napoleon  in  his  stony  lodgment  across  the  Seine. 


AT  MAXIM'S  283 


Then  Master  Goodrich  sat  down  before  the  shaky  in 
strument,  and  without  preluding  began  playing — what 
do  you  suppose?  Old-time  negro  melodies,  and  those 
boys  started  to  sing  and  dance  with  frantic  and  national 
emotion.  It's  a  curious  thing,  but  syncopation  must  be 
in  our  blood.  Joe  Hunt,  the  architect,  and  son  of  his 
famous  father,  Richard  Hunt — he  wore  his  hair  and  whisk 
ers  a  la  Victor  Capoul — sang  Irish  songs  with  an  enviable 
accent.  He  was  a  pupil  of  the  Beaux-Arts,  but  it  was 
his  Saturday  off,  and  he  proposed  to  spend  it  in  a  reason 
able  fashion.  Two  young  men  studying  at  the  Sorbonne 
"said"  some  cold,  classic  words  from  Racine,  but  broke 
into  a  wild  jig  when  were  sounded  the  stirring  measures 
of  that  sweet  old  darky  lyric:  "My  gal,  My  gal,  I'm  goin' 
for  to  see!"  We  fought  double-handed.  We  impro 
vised  tugs  of  war  with  a  richly  brocaded  table-cloth.  We 
pranced,  we  galloped,  we  upset  furniture,  and  every  time 
a  blue-eyed  lad  exclaimed  in  a  fragile  voice,  "Oh !  I  want 
to  dance  with  a  nice  girl!"  we  smothered  him  in  the 
richly  brocaded  table-cloth.  It  was  not  the  hour  for 
girlish  blandishments,  but  for  stern  masculine  rioting. 
Accordingly,  we  rioted.  Since,  I  have  marvelled  at  the 
endurance  of  Wallace  who  braved  the  ivory  teeth  and 
cacophonous  bark  of  a  peculiarly  vicious  piano.  When 
I  asked  him  to  resign  his  post  and  give  my  aching  fingers 
a  chance  he  refused,  but  he  was  pulled  from  the  stool 
and  a  magnum  poured  down  his  neck.  Then  I  sat  down 
and  started  in  with  the  Revolutionary  study  of  Chopin. 
Darkness  supervened,  as  I  was  lassoed  by  that  revenge 
ful  table-cloth,  and  dragged  over  the  floor  by  the  strong 
arms  of  a  half-dozen  Yankee  boys.  I  long  nursed  three 
violet-coloured  bruises,  a  triple  testimony  to  the  Chopin- 
hating  phalanx  from  the  Beaux-Arts  and  the  Sorbonne. 


284  STEEPLEJACK 

We  relaxed  not  for  a  second  our  endeavours  to  chase 
merriment  around  the  clock.  After  more  big  cold  bottles 
a  new  psychical  phase  manifested  itself;  for  raging  and 
war's  alarums  was  substituted  a  warm,  tender  senti- 
mentalism.  We  cried  to  the  very  heavens  that  we  were 
all  jolly  good  fellows,  and  that  no  one  dared  deny.  Con 
stant  came  up  to  deny  it,  but  corks,  crackers,  napkins 
and  vocal  enthusiasm  drove  him  below  stairs.  Only 
when  the  two  young  men  from  the  Sorbonne  went  out 
upon  the  balcony  and  in  stentorian  tones  informed  the 
budding  dawn  and  a  lot  of  sleepy  coachmen  that  it  was 
the  Fourth  of  July,  and  that  America  was  God's  own 
country,  did  the  counsels  of  the  trusty  Constant  prevail, 
and  order  was  temporarily  restored.  But  the  glimpse  of 
awkward  daylight  began  to  tell  on  our  nocturnal  nerves. 
Our  inspiration  flagged  as  a  beer  thirst  set  in,  and  beer 
meant  dissolution;  among  us  were  some  who  were  no 
lovers  of  the  barley  fruit  that  grows  in  breweries ;  besides, 
the  pace  had  been  killing.  Maestro  Goodrich  came  to 
the  rescue.  Tossing  off  a  celery  glass  of  bubbles,  he  re 
sumed  his  seat  at  the  dog-house — meaning  the  piano — 
and  began  those  mystically  intense  measures  of  the 
Prelude  to  "  Tristan  and  Isolde. "  Another  psychical 
tempest  set  in.  The  romping,  justing  hullabalooing 
ceased,  and  a  melancholy  madness  prevailed.  For  some 
temperaments  the  music  of  Tristan  is  emotional  catnip. 
We  wriggled  and  we  chanted  and  submitted  to  the  spell 
of  the  opium-charged  harmonies. 

Wagner  proved  our  Waterloo.  Maxim's  will  stand 
anything  but  Wagner  in  the  cruel  early  morn.  Good 
rich  was  a  musical  trance-medium,  and  as  six  o'clock 
sounded  from  adjacent  belfries  we  tumbled  down-stairs 


AT  MAXIM'S  285 


into  the  crude  daylight.  Six,  or  was  it  eight?  American 
citizens  blinked  like  owls  as  a  small  mob  of  coachmen 
hovered  around  them.  A  lovely  Sunday  morning.  Huge 
blocks  of  sunlight,  fanned  by  the  soft  breezes,  slanted 
up  the  Rue  Royale  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  A 
solitary  woman  stood  in  the  modulated  shadow  of  a 
doorway.  The  fantastic  dream-flowers  on  her  wide- 
brimmed  hat  clouded  her  features.  Her  costume  was  rich, 
her  style  Parisian.  She  waited  in  the  cool  shade.  Her 
sullen,  crimson  mouth  affrighted  us.  Her  jaw  was 
animal,  and  I  detected  in  her  countenance  a  blending  of 
two  races.  Ah !  how  sinister  she  seemed.  "  It  is  the 
Morocco  Woman,"  whispered  one  of  the  boys.  "It  is 
the  Woman  from  Morocco,"  we  shudderingly  acquiesced 
as  we  moved  across  the  way.  I  never  discovered  the 
identity  of  this  mysterious  Morocco  Woman.  Probably 
some  nurse-girl  going  to  early  Mass.  But  we  saw  things 
melodramatically  at  that  hour,  and  a  vampire  she  surely 
was.  After  two  of  the  crowd  escaped  arrest  while  trying 
to  steal  a  sentry-box,  we  rented  carriages  and  told  the 
drivers  to  seek  beer-land.  The  Madeleine  looked  grey  and 
classically  disdainful  as  we  turned  into  the  grand  boule 
vard,  where,  in  the  gleaming  current  of  sunshine,  we  lifted 
up  our  voices  and  told  Paris  how  happy  we  were.  At 
Julian's  we  stopped.  Up  two  heavily  carpeted  stairways 
we  mounted  only  to  find  banality.  There  were  a  few 
belated  nighthawks  who  preened  as  we  entered,  but  we 
were  Sons  of  Morning,  and  sought  not  the  Avaries  of  the 
Night.  No  beer,  but  lots  of  coffee !  We  promptly 
scorned  such  chicory  capitulation  and  once  more  touched 
the  sidewalk.  Our  coachmen,  who  had  been  with  us 
since  we  left  the  Cafe  Monferino,  began  to  show  signs  of 
wear  and  tear.  They  had  celebrated  our  national  holi- 


286  STEEPLEJACK 

day  with  a  drink  every  fifteen  minutes.  Yet  they  did 
not  weaken,  only  swore  that  every  place  except  the 
churches  was  bolted.  We  had  melted  in  number.  Two 
traitors  fled.  Cowards !  we  jeered,  for  we  hated  to  give 
in  to  sleep.  After  meditation  the  drivers  uttered  strange 
calls  to  their  rusty  horses  and  then  I  lost  my  bearings. 
We  drove  up  side  streets  into  back-alleys  leading  into 
other  alleys,  through  tortuous  defiles,  and  into  open 
clattering  squares.  At  last  we  reached  a  cafe,  a  rendez 
vous  for  coachmen. 

Alas !  it  was  too  late  to  pick  our  company;  our  withers 
were  still  unwrung,  and  the  general  sentiment  was  that 
the  devil  could  catch  the  hindmost.  Oh !  we  were  lucid 
enough;  it  was  our  parched  gullets  that  spurred  us  on  to 
new  conquests.  We  pell-melled  into  the  building  and 
found  a  choice  gathering.  Coachmen,  cocottes,  broken- 
down  foreigners,  the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail,  the  veriest 
refuse  of  Parisian  humanity.  Our  entrance  was  received 
with  a  shout.  They  knew  "a  good  thing."  They  were 
disappointed.  We  were  exclusive.  Of  course,  we 
"treated"  every  lost  soul  in  the  place,  that  was  only 
our  chivalry.  But  the  beer  sobered  us.  One  scion  of 
American  industrial  wealth  casually  remarked:  "I  never 
knew  Paris  held  so  many  thirsty  people."  It  sounded 
like  an  echo  from  the  Tenderloin.  We  squared  financial 
matters,  and,  after  fighting  off  the  manoeuvring  of  some 
shady  persons,  we  escaped.  Our  coachmen,  who  had 
almost  succumbed,  managed  to  introduce  to  us  an  aged 
bootblack  from  Corsica  who  had  fought  and  bled  with 
the  First  Consul !  We  believed  all  he  said  for  ten  cen 
times,  and  with  a  last  View  Hallo  !  we  drove  down  anony 
mous  lanes  cheered  by  the  most  awful  crew  of  blackguards 
outside  a  Balzac  novel. 


AT  MAXIM'S  287 


The  hot  sun  set  us  to  thinking  of  life  and  its  respon 
sibilities.  One  man  spoke  of  his  mother  "way  back''  in 
Kansas,  and  as  his  voice  broke  the  landscape  was  blurred 
by  our  unshed  tears.  Another  blurted  out  that  he  had 
a  dejeuner  promised  to  an  impossible  cousin.  Him  we 
rallied.  But  we  were  all  positive  that  we  must  appear 
midday  at  the  American  Embassy,  there  to  hear  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  read  by  our  Minister.  Was 
it  not  the  glorious  Fourth?  Were  we  not  brethren  and 
citizens?  It  was  only  eight  o'clock,  an  easy  engagement 
to  keep !  Wallace  Goodrich  left  us,  and  his  departure 
made  a  profound  cavity  in  our  united  consciousness. 
The  party  was  thinning.  The  Lord  knows  what  might 
happen  in  an  hour.  Perhaps  solitary  confinement  in  my 
bed.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  confess  that  I  had  with 
me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  young  architect  living 
in  the  Latin  quarter.  "Name,  name!"  was  cried.  "AI- 
drich.  He  is  the  brother  of  my  friend,  Richard  Aldrich, 
the  music-critic,  of  New  York."  A  chorus  of  roars  was 
the  response.  "Why  didn't  you  say  so  before?  He 
lives  in  our  house.  We'll  drive  you  there."  We  were 
now  four;  the  others  had  melted  into  the  middle-distance. 
We  forgot  their  names.  But  never  shall  I  forget  the 
introduction  when  we  reached  that  house.  On  the  fifth 
floor  there  lived  sixteen  architects,  students  all  at  the 
Beaux- Arts;  that  is,  they  seemed  that  number.  I  swear 
that  two  young  men  bearing  the  name  of  Aldrich  arose 
from  his  bed  to  salute  me.  I  laughed.  "I  didn't  know 
Dick  Aldrich  had  twin  brothers  in  Paris,"  I  expostulated. 
He  was  perfectly  angelic,  considering  that  he  had  been 
aroused  from  an  enviable  Sunday  morning  slumber. 
Perhaps  my  obliquity  of  vision  was  the  result  of  atmos 
pheric  refraction,  a  liquid  Parisian  mirage.  It  never 


288  STEEPLEJACK 

happened  to  me  but  once  before,  and  then,  may  the  gods 
give  me  joy !  the  victim  of  my  optical  illusion  was  a 
girl.  Can  you  conceive  anything  more  delightful  than 
finding  two  girls  you  love  where  there  was  one  before? 
I  say  "that  you  love";  otherwise  the  experience  must  be 
blood-curdling.  But  the  young  devils  in  whose  com 
pany  I  found  myself  were  not  satisfied  with  this  tame 
climax.  They  went  from  room  to  room,  bed  to  bed, 
shouting:  "Hello!  old  son,  here  is  a  man  from  New  York 
with  a  letter  from  your  brother,"  and  many  pairs  of 
pyjamas,  drugged  with  dreams,  politely  arose,  bowed, 
shook  hands,  and,  cursing  us  heartily  because  not  one 
boasted  a  brother,  they  would  fall  into  bed  again. 

All  perfect  things  must  end,  and  without  remembering 
the  modulation  to  the  street  I  found  myself  alone  in 
front  of  the  Care  Montparnasse.  I  was  cold  sober.  I 
knew  this  because  of  the  way  the  passing  citizens  gazed 
at  me.  Presently  I  engaged  in  a  discussion  with  a  rail 
road  employee  about  the  comparative  wage-earning  of 
Paris  and  Philadelphia.  An  hour  later  I  enjoyed  the 
hallucination  of  sitting  at  a  little  table  in  the  Cafe  Mon- 
ferino  drinking  white  wine  (said  to  be  superior  to  the 
hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  you),  with  a  bearded  and  friendly 
stranger  who  spoke  fluently  about  the  psychic  life  of 
micro-organisms.  The  proprietor  told  me  afterwards 
that  it  was  the  illustrious  scientist,  Alfred  Binet.  How 
I  deplored  my  lost  chance  to  ask  him  a  lot  of  questions  ! 
I  was  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences  on 
Logan  Square  and  had  regularly  attended  the  Tuesday- 
night  meetings,  and  heard  lecture  such  giants  as  Leidy 
and  Cope,  the  paleontologist,  not  to  mention  the  Rev 
erend  McCook,  on  bee-hives.  At  eleven  o'clock  I  knew 
the  game  was  up  and  in  a  dignified  though  not  chas- 


AT  MAXIM'S  289 


tened  mood,  I  rode  over  to  the  Impasse  du  Maine,  where 
I  lived  in  a  studio  once  occupied  by  Bastien  Lepage 
when  he  painted  the  portrait  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  and 
where  he  coughed  in  company  with  that  brilliant  consump 
tive  Russian  girl,  Marie  Bashkirtseff.  I  threw  myself 
on  the  bed  for  a  brief  snooze.  I  awoke  feeling  refreshed, 
and  as  the  blinds  were  down  I  scratched  a  match  and 
looked  at  my  watch.  Just  twelve  o'clock.  I  had  no 
time  to  lose.  Brushing  my  hair,  changing  linen,  I  went 
into  the  corridor.  It  was  black  as  pitch.  No  wonder. 
Midnight,  and  my  "nap"  had  consumed  a  dozen  hours. 
I  unfortunately  missed  the  celebration  at  the  American 
Embassy,  but  I  had  dispensed  much  patriotism  during 
the  night  before.  I  learned  that  all  of  the  boys  were 
at  the  Embassy.  Other  things  equal,  I  didn't  regret 
our  evening  at  Maxim's  on  the  Rue  Royale. 


VIII 
I  INTERVIEW  THE  POPE 

Perhaps  Rome  at  a  superficial  glance  affects  the  Ameri 
can  visitor  as  a  provincial  city,  sprawled  to  unnecessary 
lengths  over  its  seven  hills,  as  it  did  Taine  more  than 
a  half  century  ago,  and,  despite  the  smartness  of  its 
new  quarters,  it  is  far  from  suggesting  a  World-City  as 
do  mundane  Paris  and  London.  But  not  for  Rome  and 
her  superb  and  imperial  indifference  are  the  seductive 
spells  of  operatic  Venice  or  the  romantic  glamour  of 
Florence.  She  can  proudly  say  "La  Ville,  c'est  moi!" 
She  is  not  only  a  city  but  the  city  of  cities,  and  twenty- 
four  hours'  submergence  in  her  atmosphere  makes  you  a 
slave  at  her  eternal  chariot  wheels.  The  New  York 
cockney,  devoted  to  his  cult  of  the  modern — hotels, 
baths,  cafes,  luxurious  theatres — soon  wearies  of  Rome. 
He  prefers  Paris  or  Naples.  See  Naples  and  die — of  its 
odours !  I  know  of  no  city  where  you  formulate  an  ex 
pression  of  like  or  dislike  so  quickly  as  in  Rome.  You 
are  its  friend  or  foe  within  five  minutes  after  you  leave 
its  dingy  railway  station.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add 
that  the  newer  city,  pretentious,  hard,  and  showy,  is 
quite  negligible.  One  does  not  go  to  Rome  to  seek  the 
glazed  comforts  of  Brooklyn.  I  went  there  in  1905  to 
interview  Pope  Pius  X.  I  am  ahead  of  my  story,  but  as 
we  are  in  Europe  we  had  better  remain  there  till  I  tell  it. 
Philadelphia  is  looming  again  with  increasing  distinctness 
on  the  skyline,  and  soon  we  shall  be  back  again.  The 
usual  manner  of  approaching  the  Holy  Father  is  to  visit 

290 


I   INTERVIEW  THE  POPE  291 

the  American  Embassy  and  harry  the  good-tempered 
secretary  into  promising  an  invitation  card,  if  you  are 
not  acquainted  in  clerical  circles.  I  was  not  long  in  the 
city  before  I  discovered  that  both  Monsignor  Merry  del 
Val  and  Monsignor  Kennedy  were  at  Frascati  enjoying 
a  hard-earned  vacation.  So  I  dismissed  the  ghost  of 
the  idea  and  pursued  my  studies  in  pagan  sculpture  at 
the  Museo  Vaticano.  The  pictures  at  Florence  are  more 
varied,  but  at  Rome  there  are  only  masterpieces.  If  I 
admired  the  Raphael  of  the  Stanze,  how  much  more  did 
I  admire  his  portraiture.  Not  in  the  Madonnas  but  in 
the  portraits  of  his  contemporaries  is  to  be  found  the 
true  artist  of  Urbino.  Michelangelo  is  so  massive  in 
his  grandeur  that  at  first  he  stuns.  In  the  end  I  forget 
the  "Last  Judgment"  for  his  sculpture.  I  recalled  what 
Boucher  said  to  Fragonard  who  was  going  to  Rome:  "If 
you  take  those  people  over  there  seriously,  you  are  done 
for."  Luckily  for  us,  Fragonard  did  not  take  the  Italian 
school  seriously  and  remained  his  own  charming  Gallic 
self.  Velasquez  did  not  like  Raphael.  His  opinion  is 
recorded.  How  could  he  and  be  Velasquezy,  the  great 
est  painter  of  them  all,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Jan  Vermeer,  of  Delft?  Michelangelo,  Da  Vinci,  Rem 
brandt  were  great  visionaries,  yet  the  Spaniard  was  their 
master  in  brushwork,  and  he,  too,  possessed  supreme 
vision,  not  nocturnal,  but  daylight  vision;  not  a  poet, 
seer,  philosopher,  nevertheless  he  recreated  every-day 
life  with  the  intensity  born  of  veritable  hallucination. 
Go  to  the  Museum  on  the  Prado  in  Madrid  and  see 
"Las  Meninas,"  "Las  Hilanderas,"  and  the  noblest  bat 
tle  picture  in  the  world,  "The  Surrender  at  Breda, "  and 
if  the  Dresden  Madonna  and  "The  Transfiguration"  still 
win  your  suffrage  then  your  taste  is  to  be  commended 


292  STEEPLEJACK 

for  its  childlike  piety,  but  not  for  artistic  reasons.  After 
the  electric  vitality  of  Velasquez's  line,  after  his  tonal 
magic,  versatile  characterisation,  and  atmospheric  veri 
similitude,  few  other  painters  there  are  who  in  compari 
son  do  not  seem  flabby,  insipid,  incomplete.  Yet  I  love 
Raphael's  portraits  of  Pope  Julius  II,  Pope  Leo  X,  and 
his  two  cardinals.  These  portraits  are  in  the  Pitti  Pal 
ace,  Florence. 

The  heavy  hoofs  of  three  hundred  pilgrims  invaded  the 
peace  of  the  Hotel  Fischer  up  the  Via  Sallustiana,  where 
I  lived.  They  had  come  bearing  Peter's  Pence  and 
wearing  queer  clothes.  The  third  day  after  their  arrival 
I  got  wind  of  a  projected  audience  at  the  Vatican.  Big- 
boned  Monsignor  Pick  daily  visited  the  hotel,  and  when 
I  saw  him  in  conference  with  Signor  Fischer,  I  asked  the 
proprietor  if  it  were  possible.  ''Anything  is  possible  in 
Rome,"  responded  the  wily  Fischer.  Wear  evening 
dress?  Nonsense!  That  was  a  custom  in  the  more 
exacting  days  of  Leo  XIII.  Pope  Pius  X  is  a  democrat. 
He  hates  vain  show.  Possibly  he  has  absorbed  the 
English  antipathy  to  seeing  evening  dress  on  a  male  dur 
ing  daylight.  But  the  ladies  must  wear  lace  veils  in 
lieu  of  hats.  I  was  in  high  spirits.  I  was  to  see  the 
Pope. 

The  morning  of  October  5,  1905,  the  hotel  was  crowded 
with  Italians  selling  veils  to  the  female  pilgrims.  Car 
riages  blocked  the  streets  and  stretched  around  the  Palazzo 
Margherita  (from  my  windows  I  often  saw  the  Dowager- 
Queen  with  her  ladies  of  honour,  slowly  walking  under  the 
palm  and  cypress  trees  on  melancholy  autumn  evenings). 
There  was  much  noise.  There  were  explosive  sounds  as 
bargains  were  made.  Then,  after  the  vendors  of  saints' 
pictures,  crosses,  rosaries — chiefly  gentlemen  of  Jewish 


I   INTERVIEW  THE   POPE  293 

persuasion,  comical  as  it  may  appear — we  drove  away  in 
high  feather,  nearly  four  hundred  strong.  Through  the 
offices  of  my  amiable  host  I  had  secured  from  Monsignor 
Pick  a  parti-coloured  badge  with  a  cross  and  the  motto, 
"Cologne — Rome,  1905."  It  was  as  exciting  as  a  first 
night  at  the  opera.  The  rendezvous  was  at  the  Campo 
Santo  dei  Tedeschi,  which,  with  its  adjoining  church  of 
Santa  Maria  delta  Pieta,  had  been  donated  by  Pius  VI 
to  German  residents  as  a  burying-ground.  There  I  met 
my  companions  of  the  hotel  and,  after  an  interrogation 
regarding  my  religion  by  a  priest,  I  was  permitted  to  join 
the  procession.  In  Rome  any  road  may  lead  to  the 
Pope.  It  was  for  me  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  After 
standing  above  the  dust  and  buried  bones  of  the  forgot 
ten  dead,  we  went  into  the  church  and  were  chilled  by  a 
worthy  cleric,  who,  in  a  long  address,  told  us  that  we 
were  to  meet  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  a  human  being  like 
ourselves.  He  emphasised  the  humanity  of  the  mighty 
Prelate  before  whom  we  were  bidden  that  gloomy  after 
noon.  We  intoned  the  Te  Deum  and  filed  out  in 
pairs,  first  the  women,  then  the  men,  over  the  naked 
stones,  till  we  reached  the  end  of  the  Via  della  Fonda- 
menta.  The  pilgrims  wore  their  every-day  clothes.  Short 
cloaks  and  Swiss  hunters'  hats  prevailed.  We  left  our 
sticks  and  umbrellas  in  the  garderobe,  which  did  a  thriv 
ing  business.  We  mounted  innumerable  staircases.  We 
reached  the  Sala  Regia.  I  had  hoped  it  would  be  the 
more  spacious  Sala  Ducale. 

Three  o'clock  was  the  hour  set  for  the  audience,  but 
His  Holiness  was  closeted  with  a  French  Eminence  and 
there  was  delay.  We  spent  it  in  staring  at  the  sacred 
and  profane  frescoes  of  Daniele  da  Volterra,  Vasari,  Sal- 
viato,  and  Zucchero,  and  then  in  staring  at  one  another. 


294  STEEPLEJACK 

The  women,  despite  their  Italian  veils,  looked  hopelessly 
plain,  the  men  clumsy  and  ill  at  ease.  They  made  un 
couth  and  guttural  noises.  Pious  folk,  but  without  man 
ners.  Conversation  proceeded  amain.  Some  pilgrims 
were  heavily  laden  with  crucifixes  and  rosaries  for  which 
they  desired  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  Father.  One  young 
priest  from  America  was  bedecked  with  pious  emblems. 
It  is  against  the  rule  to  bring  such  things  into  the  Pope's 
presence,  consequently  every  one  breaks  the  rule.  A 
"pia  fraus,"  as  we  said  at  the  law  school.  The  guilty 
feeling  which  had  assailed  me  as  I  passed  the  watchful 
gaze  of  the  Swiss  Guard  was  dissipated.  The  Sala  Regia 
wore  an  unfamiliar  aspect,  though  I  had  been  haunting 
it  and  the  Sistine  Chapel  for  a  month  past.  At  last  a 
murmur :  His  Holiness !  The  nervous  tension  was  be 
come  unpleasant.  We  had  been  waiting  over  an  hour. 

We  were  ranged  on  either  side  of  the  Sala,  the  women 
to  the  right,  the  men  to  the  left  of  the  throne,  which  was 
an  ordinary  tribune.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  noisy 
sex  were  vigorously  elbowed  to  the  rear.  In  America 
these  women  would  have  been  well  to  the  front,  but  the 
polite  male  pilgrims  evidently  indulge  in  no  such  ideas  of 
sex  equality.  They  usurped  the  good  places  by  sheer 
strength.  A  tall  man  in  evening  clothes — solitary  in  this 
respect,  with  the  exception  of  the  Pope's  personal  suite — 
patrolled  the  floor  followed  by  the  Suisse  (a  murrain  on 
Michelangelo's  taste  if  he  designed  such  hideous  uni 
forms!).  I  fancied  this  major-domo  was  no  less  than  a 
prince  of  the  royal  blood,  so  haughty  his  bearing. 
When  I  heard  that  he  was  a  Roman  correspondent  on 
some  foreign  newspaper  my  respect  for  the  power  of  the 
press  increases — He  comes  ! 


I    INTERVIEW  THE   POPE  295 

This  time  it  was  not  a  false  alarm.  From  a  gallery 
facing  the  Sistine  Chapel  entered  the  inevitable  Swiss 
Guard,  followed  by  the  officers  of  the  Papal  household,  a 
knot  of  ecclesiastics  wearing  purple;  Monsignor  Pick,  the 
Papal  prothonotary  and  a  man  of  importance;  then  a  few 
stragglers — anonymous  persons,  stout,  bald  officials — 
finally  Pope  Pius  X.  He  was  attired  in  purest  white, 
even  to  the  sash  that  encompassed  his  plump  little  per 
son.  A  gold  cross  depended  from  his  neck.  He  held 
out  his  hand  to  be  kissed  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 
I  noted  the  whiteness  of  the  nervously  energetic  hand 
tendered  me,  which  bore  the  ring  of  Peter,  a  large  square 
emerald  surrounded  by  diamonds.  Though  seventy,  he 
looked  ten  years  younger.  He  was  slightly  under  medium 
height.  His  hair  was  white,  his  face  dark,  red,  veined, 
and  not  healthy.  He  needed  more  air  and  exercise. 
The  great  gardens  of  the  Vatican  Palace  were  no  com 
pensation  for  this  man,  homesick  for  the  sultry  lagoons 
and  stretches  of  gleaming  waters  in  his  old  diocese  at 
Venice.  If  the  human  in  him  could  have  called  out,  it 
would  have  voiced  Venice,  not  the  Vatican.  The  flesh 
of  his  face  was  what  painters  call  "ecclesiastical,"  that 
is,  coarse  in  grain;  his  nose  broad,  unaristocratic,  his 
brows  strong  and  harmonious.  His  eyes  may  have  been 
brown,  but  they  seemed  black,  brilliant,  piercing.  He 
moved  with  silent  alertness.  I  saw  with  satisfaction  the 
shapely  ears,  musical  ears,  their  lobes  freely  detached.  A 
certain  resemblance  to  Pius  IX  there  was,  but  not 
so  amiable  looking.  I  found  another  than  the  Pope 
I  had  expected.  This,  then,  was  the  man  of  sor 
rows,  the  exile,  though  in  his  native  land,  a  prisoner 
within  sight  of  the  city  over  which  he  was  the  spiritual 
ruler,  a  prince  of  all  principalities  and  dominions.  Withal 


296  STEEPLEJACK 

a  feeble  old  man  whose  life  would  have  been  imperilled 
if  he  had  ventured  into  the  streets  of  Rome. 

The  Pope  finished  the  circle  of  pilgrims  and  stood  at 
the  other  end  of  the  Sala.  With  him  were  his  chamber 
lains  and  ecclesiastics.  Suddenly  from  a  balcony  came 
a  voice  which  bade  us  come  nearer.  I  was  amazed. 
This  was  going  back  to  the  prose  of  life  with  a  vengeance. 
However,  we  obeyed  instructions.  A  narrow  vista  was 
made,  with  the  Pope  in  the  middle  perspective.  The 
voice,  which  issued  from  the  mouth  of  a  bearded  parson 
behind  a  glittering  camera,  cried  in  peremptory  and  true 
photographer  accents,  "One,  two,  three!  Thanks,  Your 
Holiness  !"  And  so  we  were  photographed.  In  the  Vat 
ican  and  photographed  on  the  same  plate  with  the  Pope 
of  Rome.  It  seemed  incredible.  Old  Rome  sometimes 
has  surprises  for  patronising  visitors  from  the  New  World. 
Then  His  Holiness  mounted  the  throne  and  received  the 
director  of  the  pilgrims.  I  had  my  turn,  being  introduced 
by  Monsignor  Pick,  who  informed  him  that  I  was  an 
American  music-critic  in  search  of  Plain-Chant.  The 
Pope  at  once  was  interested,  as  he  had  recently  inaug 
urated  reforms  in  the  church  choirs  of  the  world.  He 
asked  me  how  I  liked  the  music  in  Rome,  and  then  and 
there  I  expected  excommunication,  for  I  told  the  whole 
truth.  The  previous  Sunday  I  heard  a  Mass  which  was 
sung  with  much  satisfaction  by  the  Sistine  choir  of  male 
soprani  and  contralti  in  St.  Peter's;  I  had  been  informed 
that  the  eunuch  singer  no  longer  existed,  nevertheless,  I 
heard  a  male  soprano  deliver  with  art  and  elegance  the 
roulades,  trills,  scales,  and  flourishes  generally,  which  no 
masculine  throat  could  have  achieved.  The  timbre  of  the 
artificial  soprano  is  agreeable,  boyish,  yet  with  an  ambigu 
ous  quality.  In  a  word,  sexless.  His  Holiness  didn't  rel- 


I   INTERVIEW  THE   POPE  297 

ish  my  news.  He  said  something  in  Italian  to  a  secretary, 
who  immediately  jotted  down  the  instruction  on  his  tab 
lets.  We  conversed  in  French.  The  accent  of  the  Pope 
was  Italian.  I  stood  after  the  preliminary  kneeling. 
But  when  I  answered  his  question  concerning  the  recep 
tion  in  the  United  States  of  the  new  law  affecting  church 
music  I  was  poked  in  the  ribs  by  Monsignor  Pick,  who 
didn't  think  my  answer  sufficiently  diplomatic.  Perhaps 
it  wasn't,  but  again  my  naivete  compelled  me  to  say  that 
Gregorian  chant  was  hardly  popular  in  my  native  land. 
Feeling  that  I  was  lost,  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  kissed  the 
magic  ring  and  the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

The  Pope  addressed  his  audience  in  a  ringing  bary 
tone.  He  blessed  us,  and  his  singing  voice  proved  rich, 
resonant,  and  pure  for  an  old  man.  The  pilgrims  thun 
dered  the  Te  Deum  a  second  time  with  such  fervour  that 
the  historical  walls  of  the  Sala  Regia  shook  with  the 
vibrations  of  their  lungs.  Then  the  Papal  suite  trailed 
after  the  Pontiff  and  the  buzzing  began  among  the  pil 
grims.  The  women  wished  to  know,  and  indignant  were 
their  inflections,  why  a  certain  lady  dressed  in  scarlet, 
hats  and  gloves  the  same  worldly  colour,  was  permitted 
within  the  sacred  precincts !  No  one  knew.  The  men 
hurried  to  the  garderobe  and  jostled  the  keepers  for  their 
umbrellas.  Laden  with  their  holy  objects,  unconsciously 
blessed  by  the  Pope,  the  owners  of  rosary-beads,  pictures, 
medals,  and  scapulars  were  envied.  We  broke  ranks  and 
outside  we  found  sunlight.  A  happy  omen.  I  waited 
for  Monsignor  Pick,  a  man  and  a  brother.  I  took  him 
in  my  carriage  and  on  the  wings  of  thirst  we  flew  to  the 
Piazza  Santi  Apostoli,  which  spot,  notwithstanding  its 
venerated  name,  has  amber  medicine  for  sore  throats. 
The  worthy  Monsignor  hailed  from  the  land  of  the  Czech, 


298  STEEPLEJACK 


a  giant  in  size,  with  the  heart  of  a  child.  He  related 
anecdotes  of  the  Pope,  who  was  a  democrat  and  easy  of 
access.  He  was  musical,  proud  of  his  singing,  and  played 
the  piano.  I  asked  Monsignor  if  he  had  ever  heard 
Pius  IX,  nicknamed  Pia  Nina,  by  Cardinal  Antonelli, 
because  of  his  love  of  music  and  friendship  for  Liszt. 
Pius  X  did  not  care  for  Liszt's  religious  music,  always 
referring  to  the  Hungarian  composer  as  "il  compositore 
Tedesco,"  which  would  have  pained  the  Abbe,  for  he 
was  proud  of  his  nationality.  The  Graner  Mass  has 
never  been  sung  at  St.  Peter's,  although  Liszt  was  so 
friendly  with  Pius  IX.  I  made  Monsignor  laugh  when 
I  retailed  that  venerable  tale  about  Liszt's  repentance 
and  withdrawal  from  the  world  to  the  Oratory  of  the 
Madonna  del  Rosario  on  Monte  Mario,  an  hour  from 
Rome.  Pope  Pio  Nono  conferred  upon  the  Magyar 
pianist  the  singular  honour  of  personally  hearing  his  con 
fession  and  receiving  the  celebrated  sinner  into  the  arms 
of  Mother  Church.  (Perhaps  the  delightful  old  Pope 
was  curious.)  After  the  first  day  and  night,  Liszt  was 
still  on  his  knees,  muttering  into  the  exhausted  ears  of 
the  unhappy  Pontiff  the  awful  history  of  his  life  and 
loves.  Then,  extenuated,  Pio  Nono  begged  his  penitent: 
"Basta!  Caro  Liszt.  Your  memory  is  marvellous. 
Now  go  to  the  piano  and  play  there  the  remainder  of 
your  sins."  Liszt  did  so  and  for  another  day  the  sacred 
precincts  of  the  Vatican  echoed  with  the  most  extraordi 
nary  carnal  and  enchanting  music.  The  wailing  of 
damned  souls,  the  blasts  of  hell,  and  the  choral  singing 
of  cloistered  cats  were  overheard.  Liszt  had  never 
played  so  intimately,  so  epically.  Not  only  was  the 
spellbound  Pope  shaken  by  the  thunder  of  the  Apoca 
lypse,  by  the  great  white  throne  and  Lucifer  in  chains, 


I   INTERVIEW  THE  POPE  299 

but  he  had  visions  of  the  Mohammedan  Paradise,  with 
fountains,  gazelles,  and,  quite  worn-out,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
when  he  awoke  the  following  week  Franz  Liszt  was 
made  an  Abbe  and  a  deacon  in  third  orders.  It  is  said, 
I  told  Monsignor  Pick,  that  he  never  touched  a  key 
board  after  that  in  the  Vatican.  "Se  non  e  vero  e  ben 
Trovatore,"  hummed  the  cleric.  And  it  was  my  turn  to 
laugh.  I  must  not  forget  that  next  day  the  Syrian  ped 
dler  descended  upon  our  hotel  with  photographs  for  sale. 
I  bought  three  copies;  one  I  still  possess.  Why  not? 
A  man  doesn't  often  get  a  chance  to  appear  in  the  same 
picture  with  a  Pope.  And  I  still  hear  the  summons: 
"Uno,  due,  tre!"  of  that  too  familiar  Roman  photog 
rapher. 


IX 

ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKE 

Several  weeks  previous  to  the  interview  with  the  Pope, 
I  was  living  at  Sorrento  on  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Marion 
Crawford,  the  novelist,  in  whose  company  I  crossed 
from  New  York,  lived  not  far  away,  at  Cocuemella. 
There  I  visited  the  celebrated  author  of  Mr.  Isaacs 
and  A  Roman  Singer,  and  saw  the  tower  in  which  he 
wrote;  it  stood  on  a  hill  some  distance  from  his  villa 
which  overlooked  the  Mediterranean.  His  yacht  was 
usually  anchored  off  the  Hotel  Vittoria  and  daily  I 
swam  out  and  around  it.  Not  till  later  did  I  dis 
cover  that  it  had  served  as  a  New  York  harbour  pilot  boat 
owned  by  Pilot  Brown,  the  father  of  the  young  pastor, 
Father  George  Brown,  of  Morristown,  N.  Y.  But  the 
craft  had  an  Italian  crew,  it  was  no  wonder  I  didn't 
recognise  its  American  origin.  The  summer  of  1905  was 
a  hot  sultry  one  in  Southern  Italy.  Mount  Vesuvius  in 
eruption  through  August  and  September  was  a  magnif 
icent  spectacle  from  the  esplanade  of  the  Vittoria  at 
Sorrento.  In  the  daytime  the  crater  lost  its  infernal 
lustre,  yet  it  glistened;  at  night  lava  streamed  down  the 
mountainside.  No  one  seemed  nervous  in  Naples.  Nor 
for  that  matter  at  Torre  del  Greco,  in  the  direct  path  of 
the  molten  river.  But  the  most  enchanting  spectacle 
was  after  sunset,  when  the  black  column  of  smoke,  ex 
panded  at  the  top  like  the  palm-tree,  the  classic  shape  de 
scribed  by  Pliny,  became  a  tremendous  pillar  of  fire, 
showering  sparks  and  huge  incandescent  masses  over 

300 


ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE   EARTHQUAKE    301 

the  landscape.  The  booming,  as  of  distant  artillery,  was 
incessant,  and  it  became  so  alarming  that  I  asked  the 
porter  of  the  hotel  if  danger  was  to  be  expected.  Being 
an  expert  liar  he  answered  that  every  summer  Mount 
Vesuvius  shot  its  fireworks  for  the  benefit  of  foreign 
visitors,  and  that  the  principal  noise  I  heard  was  merely 
the  gun  practice  of  an  Italian  navy  fleet  anchored  off 
Castellamare.  Now,  as  several  oldest  inhabitants  in 
Naples  had  informed  me  that  such  an  eruption  was  a 
novelty — they  carried  open  umbrellas  in  the  streets  when 
pulverised  dust  or  ashes  became  too  thick — I  knew  I  was 
enjoying  a  rare  and  operatic  performance  conducted  by 
impresario  nature.  Auber's  "Masaniello"  and  its  erup 
tion  scene  was  childish  in  comparison;  but  Bulwer's  de 
scription  in  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  struck  the  right 
keynote.  The  grand  finale  was  to  follow.  I  had  been 
in  Naples  all  day  and  a  muggy  day  it  was.  I  had  taken 
luncheon  at  the  "Gambrinus,"  a  pleasant  cafe  on  the 
water's  edge  kept  by  a  fat  Italian.  He  had  smiled 
when  I  expressed  my  astonishment  at  the  unconcern  of 
the  Neapolitans.  They  were  used  to  the  caprices  of 
their  beloved  mountain.  Even  the  inhabitants  at  its 
base  returned  to  their  devastated  farms  and  calmly  re 
sumed  work  after  an  outburst.  I  took  the  afternoon 
boat  to  Capri  which  stops  at  Sorrento,  and  as  I  saw  the 
gorgeous  pyrotechnics  from  the  upper  deck,  I  congratu 
lated  myself  on  my  luck.  People  have  gone  to  Naples 
for  years,  yet  missed  a  real  Vesuvian  blow-up. 

The  next  morning  I  saw  with  some  surprise  that  plaster 
had  fallen  from  my  ceiling.  A  storm  during  the  night, 
no  doubt.  But  when  I  went  to  the  portier's  lodge  for 
my  mail  I  found  a  mob  surrounding  the  poor  man,  whose 
wits  had  deserted  him.  He  could  only  ejaculate  "very 


302  STEEPLEJACK 


bad,  very  bad,"  and  it  took  me  ten  minutes  to  pluck  out 
the  heart  of  his  mystery,  and  then  he  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  Naples.  I  eagerly  looked.  To  my  aston 
ishment  Vesuvius  was  normal.  A  hazy  cloud  of  vapour 
issued  from  its  centre,  the  metallic  booming  had  ceased. 
I  was  mystified.  I  had  seen  Mount  ^Etna  in  Sicily,  and 
Mount  Stromboli  on  the  Lipari  Islands,  and  it  was  thus 
they  had  appeared,  although  the  lighthouse  of  the  Medi 
terranean  was  luminous  after  dark.  "Very  bad/'  re 
peated  the  portier.  "Batuishka,"  I  said,  firmly  grasp 
ing  him  by  the  neck — I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  was  a 
Russian — "  Beloved  brother,  speak,  make  yourself  clear 
or  by  the  holy  name  of  Rurik,  PII  choke  the  beloved  son 
of  your  venerated  mother."  He  spoke.  It  was  very 
bad  indeed.  At  about  three  A.  M.,  a  shock  had  started 
from  the  fiery  mountain,  traversed  the  country,  and  de 
veloped  into  a  frightful  earthquake  in  Calabria  near 
Reggio;  the  eruption  stopped  as  the  quake  began. 
Vesuvius  had  shot  its  bolt.  In  the  cataclysm  which  oc 
curred  several  years  afterwards,  Reggio  was  destroyed 
and  across  the  Strait,  Messina,  too.  But  the  1905 
catastrophe  was  severe  enough.  It  had  lightly  shaken 
Sorrento  and  the  household  climbed  down  the  steep  in 
cline  or  went  on  the  lift  to  the  strand  where  they  prayed 
and  screamed  till  daylight.  My  neighbour  in  the  next 
room  had  been  thrown  violently  from  his  bed.  I  had 
peacefully  slept.  The  portier  regarded  me  with  suspicious 
cynical  eyes.  What?  A  man  could  sleep  through  such 
a  shock !  Oh !  those  Americans.  Then  he  winked  at 
me  with  the  sly  wink  of  a  little  Russian.  Ah !  yes !  the 
foreign-born  Barin  had  been  over  the  gulf  at  Naples. 
No  wonder  he  slept  soundly ! 

But  I  was  too  busy  getting  my  kit  ready  and  scouring 


ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKE  303 

Sorrento  for  a  conveyance  to  take  me  to  Calabria. 
There  was  a  fat  newspaper  story  down  there,  and  I 
didn't  propose  to  miss  it.  The  King  and  Queen  of  Italy 
had  motored  from  Rome  that  morning;  at  last  I  hired  a 
miserable  old  machine  and  a  gay  young  chauffeur.  To 
the  Evvivas  !  of  the  hotel  guests  led  by  the  portier — now 
quite  overseas  from  excitement  and  a  subtly  dangerous 
liqueur  called  Strega — I  went  off  on  the  job,  though  with 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  we  should  smash  up  before 
we  reached  Amalfi.  We  did.  Worst  of  all  was  the  be 
haviour  of  the  driver.  He  was  a  thirsty  soul  and  insisted 
on  pointing  out  every  trattoria  on  the  route.  He  drank 
but  kept  sober.  What  I  particularly  disliked  was  his 
hospitable  way  of  inviting  a  friend  at  each  wine  house 
to  ride  and  keep  him  company.  Those  friends  of  his  sat 
on  the  front  of  the  car,  and  to  have  some  dirty  rascal 
blot  out  the  view  and  let  me  enjoy  his  evil  odour — no,  it 
was  too  much !  Halt !  I  finally  cried,  after  we  had 
dropped  a  woman  with  a  dirty  brat  at  a  wayside  inn, 
halt  Antonio !  I  hired  this  motor,  I  continued,  and  you 
are  renting  the  front  seats  to  every  newcomer.  It  must 
stop  "subito!"  I  explained,  and  added  "caramba!"  and 
then  remembered  that  it  was  not  Italian.  I'll  get  out  if 
you  take  on  another  passenger.  He  smiled,  showing 
ivory  that  an  elephant  might  have  envied.  My  threat 
didn't  disturb  this  ingenuous  youth.  He  knew.  So  did 
I.  The  road  was  hilly,  dusty,  and  perhaps  dangerous. 
But  when  I  told  him  that  he  would  not  receive  a  tip  he 
weakened  and  promised  to  be  good.  We  proceeded  on 
our  winding  way.  Nevertheless,  we  reached  our  desti 
nation  two  days  late,  but  I  saw  the  desolated  villages, 
saw  the  misery  which  those  truly  charitable  souls,  the 
royal  pair,  did  so  much  to  relieve,  and  saw  the  little  girl 


304  STEEPLEJACK 

with  her  nanny-goat  who  was  rescued  after  being  penned 
up  in  the  ruins  of  her  house.  The  continuous  bleating 
of  the  kid  and  her  feeble  wails  led  to  their  discovery. 
When,  covered  with  dirt,  she  came  blinking  into  the 
daylight,  her  arm  about  that  blessed  goat,  she  cooed 
"Babbo!  Babbo!"  Her  mother  had  died  before  she 
was  old  enough  to  remember  the  loss,  so  there  was  no 
one  but  "Babbo"  left,  and  he  was  buried  under  the 
debris  in  his  cellar.  The  child  was  pacified  with  candy, 
and  the  last  I  saw  of  her  and  the  goat  was  as  she  stood 
talking  to  the  Queen,  who  was  alternately  weeping  and 
laughing.  She  is  a  stranger  born,  the  Queen,  but  the 
Italians  adore  her  because  of  such  pity  for  the  afflicted. 
I  had  seen  the  havoc  wrought  by  the  earthquake  after 
sleeping  through  its  primal  shock. 


X 

I  TREAT  A  KING 

I  have  mentioned  the  name  of  Milan  of  Servia.  In 
1896  he  was  an  ex- King,  simulacrum  of  royalty,  and 
unworthy  descendant  of  the  Obrenovitches,  originally 
O'Brians  of  Antrim,  I  could  take  an  oath.  Swineherds 
and  Servian  Kings.  One  torrid  August  afternoon  I  was 
writing  at  the  Cafe  Monferino,  Paris,  where  I  did  much  of 
my  work  (I  tried  to  be  very  Parisian  then).  A  furious 
gabbling  at  the  table  next  to  me  caused  me  to  curse  the 
interruption.  A  dark,  wiry  chap  was  quarrelling  with  a 
fat,  swarthy,  whiskered  personage  in  an  unfamiliar 
speech.  They  became  so  noisy  that  I  protested,  using, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  violent  language.  But  they  paid  no 
attention.  It  was  evidently  a  dispute  over  money  for 
they  held  up  fingers,  counted  in  the  air,  and  took  out 
wallets.  I  summoned  the  proprietor.  He  whispered: 
"Cher  ami,  it  is  the  Milan  King  of  Servia,  and  with  him 
is  his  ex-Prime-Minister,  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
Chamberlain,  First  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber  and  Bot 
tle  holder."  This  fact  altered  matters.  Ten  minutes 
elapsed  and  I  found  myself  sitting  with  the  royal  house 
hold  and  interviewing  the  King.  He  was  a  charming 
blackguard.  His  first  question  was:  "Do  you  already 
know  the  families  Vanderbilt,  Astor,  and  Rockefeller? 
My  son  would  like  to  make  a  rich  alliance.  He  is  King 
of  Servia.  His  mother,  Queen  Natalie  (Milan  had  the 
impudence  to  mention  the  name  of  that  sainted  and  cruelly 
abused  woman),  will  be  happy  if  he  marries  an  American." 

305 


306  STEEPLEJACK 

I  thanked  him  for  the  honour  and  confessed  that  while 
I  was  not  precisely  hand  in  glove  with  the  people  he 
mentioned— "But  I  will  make  it  worth  your  while, 
young  man,"  he  importuned.  I  am  not  a  business  man, 
much  less  a  Shatchen,  a  marriage-broker,  as  they  say  in 
Yiddish,  yet  I  found  something  so  comic  about  this 
diplomatic  offer  that  I  burst  out  laughing.  The  royal 
household  took  umbrage.  I  apologised.  In  the  mean 
time  the  sun  had  vanished  behind  the  opera-house  and 
we  went  out  on  the  terrace.  The  household  could  boast 
a  thirst.  They  swallowed  vast  "doubles"  of  Pilsner,  and 
soon  the  porcelain  stands  which  also  serve  as  tallies 
began  to  pile  up.  At  midnight  we  were  still  discussing 
the  tremendous  question:  Would  a  female  member  of 
the  prominent  American  families  aforesaid  be  induced 
to  wed  the  scion  of  the  Obrenovitches?  If  so — how 
much?  By  this  time  I  could  only  see  their  faces,  so  high 
were  piled  the  tallies.  Parisian  waiters  easily  forget, 
and  this  is  a  safe  method  for  keeping  the  account  before 
your  eyes.  I  went  indoors  to  select  some  cigars.  When  I 
came  out  no  royal  household  was  to  be  seen.  I  made  in 
quiries  in  a  sad  voice.  Arcades  ambo !  I  said,  and  con 
soled  myself  with  the  thought  that  the  story  I  had  ex 
tracted  from  them  would  amply  repay  me  for  the  out 
lay.  I  asked  the  garcon  for  his  addition.  At  fourteen 
cents  a  "double"  and  with  about  one  hundred  "doubles" 
to  be  reckoned  up  ( in  less  excited  condition  I  volun 
tarily  knocked  off  one-half  of  this  number),  I  saw  that 
there  would  be  no  excess  profits  left  from  the  article. 
And  so  it  came  to  pass.  I  paid  the  bill  and  when  I  met 
the  same  scamps  a  few  evenings  later,  I  told  them  what 
we  do  to  such  pikers  in  the  land  of  the  free.  They 
shrugged  indifferent  shoulders,  explaining  that  I  had  in- 


I  TREAT  A   KING  307 

vited  them — besides  I  was  only  a  correspondent,  an 
American,  and  because  of  the  honour  conferred  by  their 
company — I  moved  away.  The  poor  son  of  a  poor 
father  married  Draga  and  made  her  his  queen,  and  with 
her  was  foully  murdered  in  1903.  Peter  Karageorgovich, 
the  legitimate  King,  did  not  know  of  the  conspiring  that 
put  him  back  on  the  throne,  yet  he  was  clairvoyant  enough 
to  reach  Belgrade  from  Paris  in  surprisingly  short  time. 


XI 
HOME  AGAIN 

I  returned  to  Philadelphia.  I  loved  Paris  but  my 
parents  loved  me  more.  There  was  no  fatted  calf  killed 
on  my  arrival.  I  came  over  on  the  Red  Star  line  and  my 
last  bright  memory  was  Antwerp  and  a  September  Ker- 
messe.  I  was  despondent  when  I  went  aboard  the 
steamer  and  didn't  dream  that  Bruges,  Antwerp,  Brussels 
would  see  me  years  afterwards  as  a  regular  summer  in 
habitant.  My  home  city  was  shrunken.  Paris  is  a 
dangerous  criterion.  It  was  the  only  criterion  I  had  at 
the  time.  If  I  had  come  via  Brooklyn  the  modulation 
would  have  been  less  painful.  If  I  had  landed  at  New 
York  instead  of  on  the  Delaware  I  should  never  have 
gone  further.  Of  that  I  am  sure.  Why  the  sudden  dis 
taste  for  Philadelphia?  The  only  answer  is  Paris. 
That  magic  vocable  filled  my  horizon.  I  was  more  hope 
lessly  homesick  for  the  city  than  before  I  saw  it.  But 
why  explain?  I  came  to  consciousness  as  painfully  as 
the  moment  when  the  balsam  apple  liniment  burned  into 
my  flesh  after  my  accident  at  the  Baldwin  locomotive 
shop.  My  family  behaved  beautifully.  Not  a  reproach, 
but  my  friends  were  uncomfortable  when  they  met  me. 
I  was  like  a  man  who  is  reported  missing  in  an  accident 
and  is  mentally  disposed  of  by  his  acquaintances  and 
then  embarrasses  them  by  appearing  safe  and  sound. 
I  should  have  stayed  away  longer.  The  prodigal  son  is 
always  a  bore.  I  went  about  my  business  as  usual  but 
teaching  no  longer  appealed  to  me.  A  foreign  corre- 

308 


HOME  AGAIN  309 


spondent  and  a  piano  teacher !  I  moped.  I  studied,  in 
fact,  for  several  years  read  enormously.  A  few  cultured 
families  opened  their  doors  to  me.  I  saw  that  one  could 
live  in  Philadelphia  and  yet  enjoy  art  and  literature. 
With  Franz  Schubert  I  resumed  the  old-music-making. 
Max  Heinrich  and  his  brood  had  gone  South.  I  met 
Theodore  Presser  and  we  persuaded  ourselves  that  we 
must  have  the  superciliary  tendon  of  the  ring-finger  on 
the  left  hand  liberated  by  cutting.  Pianists  are  ham 
pered  by  this  tendon,  one  of  those  survivals  in  the  human 
anatomy  like  the  appendix,  the  pineal  gland,  and  moral 
scruples.  Bravely  we  went  arm  in  arm  to  Dr.  Forbes, 
a  well-known  surgeon,  then  on  Locust  Street  west  of 
Broad.  We  took  our  punishment  without  complaint  or 
cocaine.  The  little  snip  of  the  steel  hurt,  but  that  night 
I  played  as  usual  at  an  exposition  in  West  Philadelphia, 
where  my  old  employer,  William  Dalliba  Dutton,  had  an 
exhibition  of  pianos.  I  think  I  should  have  accepted 
an  invitation  to  a  lunar  voyage  so  weary  was  I  of  my  life. 
I  suffered  from  the  ordinary  hypersesthesia  familiar  to 
neurologists.  Paris,  I  believed,  was  my  "patrie  phy 
sique,"  and  I  said  so  much  to  the  disgust  of  sensible 
people.  In  my  revolt  against  my  environment  I  even 
went  so  far  as  to  plan  a  society  for  the  aesthetic  and  moral 
regeneration  of  society.  It  was  to  be  called  "The  Chil 
dren  of  Adam"  after  the  chastest  and  most  odouriferous 
section  of  Wicked  Walt's  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  drafted 
the  formula  of  the  scheme.  It  was  comprehensive  and 
pagan  enough  to  have  aroused  even  the  interest  of  the 
police,  if  known.  I  found  some  disciples,  intellectual, 
artistic  girls,  who  saw  the  ideal  through  a  hole  in  the 
millstone.  There  were  plenty  of  windmills  in  the  vicinity, 
but  this  particular  group  didn't  wear  bonnets,  so  nothing 


3io  STEEPLEJACK 


came  of  the  enterprise.  It  languished  and  died  of  inani 
tion.  The  chief  trouble  lay  in  the  fact  that  I  was  to  be 
grand  Panjandrum,  Pooh-Pah,  and  Brigham  Young  com 
bined.  No  other  males  but  I  were  admitted  to  member 
ship.  In  such  circumstances  "The  Children  of  Adam" 
could  not  have  long  endured.  Nor  I.  It  was  the  ideal 
of  a  happy  chicken-coop.  The  consolation  I  had  after  a 
week  of  study  was  the  long  walk  on  Saturday  afternoon 
in  company  with  Professor  Roth,  Dr.  E.  J.  Nolan,  and 
Frank  Cunningham.  The  professor,  as  my  friend  and 
only  schoolmaster,  felt  called  upon  to  exercise  from  time 
to  time  his  classic  prerogative  of  putting  me  through  my 
paces.  He  knew  of  my  passion  for  music,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  the  promenade  he  held  me  up  on  the  river 
just  where  the  boathouses  stand.  "James,"  he  asked 
snapping  his  thumbs  and  forefingers,  an  ominous  sign 
that  made  me  shiver,  emancipated  as  I  was  from  the 
schoolroom,  "James,  man,  what  is  rhythm?"  The 
finger  snapping  increased,  sure  sign  of  repressed  impa 
tience.  Bravely  I  stuck  to  my  definition,  "Professor 
Roth,  the  simplest  formula  is  measured  flow.  Rhythm 
derives  from  the  Greek — "  He  interrupted,  "Greek  or 
no  Greek !  Thunder  and  mud !  For  the  last  time, 
what  is  rhythm,  James?"  Dr.  Nolan  and  Frank  showed 
anxious  interest.  But  I  was  not  to  be  shaken.  Mea 
sured  flow,  that's  what  rhythm  is  when  we  get  to  Straw 
berry  Mansion.  "Professor,  I'll  prove  to  you  that 
rhythm  can  also  become  measured  flow."  I  winked. 
The  professor  cordially  shook  my  hand.  The  others 
laughed  and  I  felt  relieved.  I  knew  his  puzzling  tactics. 
At  the  most  inopportune  moments  he  would  pop  out 
questions  to  rattle  his  old  pupils  not  even  the  presence 
of  a  bishop  could  prevent  from  asking.  "What  is  the 


HOME  AGAIN  311 


origin  of  the  mitre?"  or,  "If  there  are  four  synoptic 
gospels,  how  many  rejected  gospels  were  there?"  Which 
was  embarrassing.  Edward  Roth  withal  crochety  had 
a  very  human  disposition,  and  his  old  pupils  are  faithful  to 
his  memory.  When  they  meet  he  is  the  first  person  they 
discuss. 

Our  walks  seldom  varied.  We  would  meet  at  the 
Academy  of  Natural  Sciences,  proceed  up  Twentieth 
Street,  occasionally  cut  into  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  but 
usually  followed  Fairmount  Avenue  to  the  park  entrance; 
thence  along  the  west  drive  and  sauntering,  chatting, 
smoking,  we  enjoyed  the  loveliest  natural  park  of  them 
all.  Strawberry  Mansion  achieved,  we  halted;  Levy 
would  play  on  his  golden  cornet — he  had  a  French  horn 
tone,  this  plump  little  Jew,  born  in  Dublin — and  we  sat 
at  table  and  didn't  eat  strawberries.  I  think  that  Rob 
ert  Tagg,  of  Maennerchor  Garden,  was  the  manager  of 
the  cafe.  The  park  then  was  not  under  dusty  puritanical 
rule,  and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  any  improvement 
in  our  civic  virtues  or  human  thought  and  activities. 
Roth  was  a  well-read  man,  a  linguist,  and  a  classical 
scholar;  Dr.  Nolan,  strong  on  the  natural  sciences  with 
a  bias  towards  modern  literature,  possessed  the  wittiest 
tongue  in  the  town.  He  could  scarify  an  opponent  as 
quickly  as  a  farmer's  wife  can  wring  the  neck  of  a  fowl. 
Battles  royal  were  fought  between  Nolan  and  Roth; 
Frank  Cunningham  and  I  anticipated  blood  flowing,  but 
the  only  thing  that  flowed  was  beer.  At  nightfall  we 
returned  tired  and  pleased  with  our  outing.  There 
weren't  as  many  clubs  as  there  are  nowadays.  The 
park  was  our  summer  club. 

The  old-fashioned  hospitality  of  New  Year's  Day  was 


3i2  STEEPLEJACK 

beginning  to  disappear.  How  well  I  remembered  the 
closed  windows,  lights  burning  at  midday,  the  punch 
bowl  and  the  appearance  of  sundry  young  men  more  or 
less  speechless  though  fervently  polite.  It  had  its  draw 
backs,  this  immemorial  custom,  but  the  girls  liked  it. 
The  punch  bowl  has  gone  into  the  limbo  of  discarded 
things  and  the  world  wags  on.  The  same  good  old 
Dr.  Landis  "lectured  to  men  only."  Don't  be  a  clam! 
was  an  advertising  slogan.  The  Chestnut  Street  Opera 
House  was  for  me  the  wickedest  place  on  the  globe. 
Startling  posters  revealing  stoutly  built  "British  Blondes," 
with  grand-piano  legs,  stirred  my  curiosity,  whatever 
they  were  called,  the  Lydia  Thompson  or  the  Emily 
Soldene  burlesques.  With  the  exception  of  Alice  Dun 
ning  Lingard,  I  thought  Lisa  Weber  the  most  attractive 
woman  on  the  boards.  Years  after  I  had  seen  Lydia,  I 
went  to  Her  Majesty's  theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  Lon 
don,  then  under  the  direction  of  Beerbohm  Tree.  Francis 
Neilson  was  stage  manager,  and  "Twelfth  Night"  was 
truly  a  gorgeous  revival.  Tree  played  Malvolio,  one  of 
his  most  convincing  assumptions,  for,  despite  his  much 
praised  versatility,  his  range  was  extremely  limited.  I 
sat  in  the  front  row,  a  guest  of  the  management,  and  next 
to  a  very  old  but  active  lady,  who  took  the  greatest  in 
terest  in  the  performance.  The  Maria  was  Miss  Til 
bury — Zeffie,  and  she  was  so  arch  and  charming  that  we 
applauded  her.  Simply  beaming  with  joy,  my  neigh 
bour  asked:  "She  is  very  good,  is  she  not,  sir?"  I 
praised  the  girl.  "She  is  my  daughter,"  she  proudly 
informed  me.  The  entr'  acte  found  me  behind  with 
Neilson.  He  smiled.  "Do  you  know  the  lady  next  to 
you?"  "Yes,  Miss  Tilbury's  mother;  she  told  me  so." 
"True,"  replied  Frank,  "but  do  you  realise  that  she  is 


HOME  AGAIN  313 


Lydia  Thompson?"  Good  Lord!  The  years  at  once 
telescoped  and  I  saw  the  handsome  blonde  Lydia  of  my 
boyhood,  now  a  little  old  lady  still  interested  in  the  stage 
and  in  her  daughter's  career. 

At  a  little  midnight  supper  I  related  to  my  host, 
Beerbohm,  not  then  Sir  Herbert,  Tree,  the  story,  and  he 
told  me  a  dozen  better  ones.  To  Neilson  and  myself 
he  said:  "They  say  the  Beerbohms  have  Jewish  blood. 
True,  I  was  born  in  Berlin  and  my  father,  Julius  Birn- 
baum,  was  a  Russian,  but  if  I  had  a  few  drops  of  what 
George  du  Maurier  called  the  precious  essence,  I  should 
be  a  richer  man."  Tree  made  money  but  spent  it  in 
costly  production.  He  followed  in  the  footsteps  of 
Henry  Irving.  His  "Darling  of  the  Gods"  was  almost 
as  elaborate  as  David  Belasco's.  I  thought  of  a  possible 
Jewish  strain  in  the  family  when  I  was  with  George 
Moore  on  the  esplanade  of  the  Baireuth  Opera  House 
in  1901.  We  had  been  speaking  of  humour,  and  I  spoke 
of  Jewish  humour.  "What  do  you  call  Jewish  humour?" 
said  Mr.  Moore  in  his  most  disinterested  manner.  I  re 
plied:  "Heine,  Saphir,  Beaconsfield,  Zangwill,  Max 
Beerbohm."  "I  didn't  know  that  Max  was  a  Jew," 
exclaimed  the  novelist,  Max  is  a  half-brother  of  Her 
bert.  "He  may  not  be  Jewish,  but  he  has  that  deli 
cate  ironic  touch  which  is  Hebraic."  It  abounds  in 
Hebraic  literature.  Then  the  trumpets  from  their  bal 
cony  sounded  the  fate-motive,  and  we  all  trooped  in  to 
the  last  act  of  "The  Valkyries." 

You  can't  always  tell  from  physiognomy.  Sitting  one 
afternoon  on  the  beautiful  Marina  at  Naples,  after  visit 
ing  the  devil-fish  and  other  extraordinary  sea-monsters 
in  the  Aquarium,  perhaps  the  choicest  collection  in  exist 
ence,  I  was  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  little  beggar  boys. 


3i4  STEEPLEJACK 

Half  dressed,  dirty,  impudent,  and  several  of  them  as 
beautiful  as  the  Infant  Jesus,  I  saw  that  it  was  a  hopeless 
hold-up.  I  shook  my  stick  at  them.  Some  ran  away. 
I  looked  about  me  for  the  police;  not  one  in  view;  it 
was  the  hour  of  the  siesta.  "Clear  out,  you  scamps," 
I  threatened.  The  leader  of  the  gang  must  have  been 
twelve  years  old.  He  never  budged,  though  he  kept 
beyond  the  reach  of  my  stout  cherrywood  stick. 

He  remonstrated  and  did  my  ears  play  a  trick?  New 
York,  East  Side  English:  "What  for  you  rich  Yankee 
come  to  Napoli  and  no  give  money  to  poor  Italian  boy?" 
That  settled  it.  "Here,"  I  cried,  giving  him  a  handful 
of  copper.  "Where  did  you  learn  English?"  "I  came 
from  New  York;  I  was  born  there."  "Born  where?" 
"Mulberry  Street,"  he  answered,  and  with  his  band 
scooted  towards  the  Santa  Lucia  quarter.  He  looked  like 
the  future  chief  of  a  black-hand  blackmailing  organisa 
tion.  Then,  Naples  was  in  the  temporary  clutches  of 
the  notorious  Camorra,  who  made  themselves  very  un 
popular  with  visitors.  "Rich  man,"  the  boy  had  said, 
and  at  the  very  moment  I  was  counting  my  wealth  to  see 
if  I  had  enough  to  get  as  far  as  Genoa;  if  not,  I  should  be 
compelled  to  ship  at  Naples  on  my  return-trip  ticketo 


XII 
ETERNITY  AND  THE  TOWN  PUMP 

Let  us  rest  now  for  a  little  gossip  about  Eternity  and 
the  Town  Pump.  I  pause  to  recover  my  second  wind. 
I've  told  you  some  things  I  remember  about  Old  Phila 
delphia  and  the  Paris  of  the  seventies  and  eighties,  there 
fore  it  might  be  a  holy  and  wholesome  thought  to  catch 
my  breath  and,  incidentally,  examine  my  conscience.  I 
warned  you  at  the  beginning  of  these  papers  that  I  pro 
posed  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  (of  course,  I 
wouldn't  dare  all  for  fear  the  police  would  intervene), 
else  how  can  you  judge  my  estimates  of  music,  painting, 
acting,  literature?  Out  of  the  hodge-podge  which  I  call 
my  life  I  had  to  distill  some  sort  of  philosophy.  I  was 
never  an  agnostic.  I  always  believed  in  something, 
somewhere,  somewhen — as  Emerson  has  it.  In  fact,  I 
believe,  and  still  believe,  in  everything.  I  am  a  "  Yes- 
Say  er"  to  life.  Any  extravagance,  but  the  denial  of 
reality.  The  "vicar  of  hell"  is  he  who  teaches  the  nega 
tion  of  things.  Man  is  a  vertical  animal.  True.  But 
he  is  also  mobile,  an  animal  that  adapts.  Because  of  his 
numerous  aptitudes  he  is  differentiated  from  his  fellow- 
animals.  His  "fall"  was  when  he  went  on  all-fours  and 
worshipped  ignoble  sticks  and  stones  as  gods.  The  ges 
ture  was  well-meant,  but  the  attitude  undignified.  It 
was  a  throwback  to  the  anthropoids.  It  savoured  of  a 
return  to  animalism.  Yet  it  is  better  to  be  a  polytheist 
than  an  atheist.  The  gods  are  ever  moving  through  the 
heavens  to  remoter  constellations.  Nothing  endures  but 

315 


316  STEEPLEJACK 

mobility,  changeless  change.  Nevertheless,  we  speak  of 
stability,  permanence,  immortality,  the  absolute  when 
nature  abhors  an  absolute.  The  Eternal  Return  is  now, 
it  is  the  eternal  recommencement.  Hope  of  a  future  life 
is  the  aura  thrown  off  by  young  healthy  cellular  tissue. 
The  sap  is  mounting.  Youth  alone  is  immortal.  With 
advancing  decay  the  fires  of  the  future  pale  and  burn 
out.  But  we  must  believe,  the  very  affirmation  of  belief 
—say  in  free-will — puts  courage  into  actions.  Words 
worth,  in  his  famous  sonnet,  after  deploring  that  the 
world  is  too  much  with  us,  late  and  soon — getting  and 
spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers — exclaims  with  noble 
indignation:  " Great  God!  I'd  rather  be  a  pagan  suckled 
in  a  creed  outworn.  .  .  ."  Then  he  could  believe  in  old 
Triton  and  all  the  gods  of  the  waters. 

Plato  called  Time  "a  moving  image  of  eternity,"  be 
lieving  that  God  was  unable  to  make  the  earth  eternal? 
To  each  man  his  mysticism.  Everything  that  is  to  be 
has  already  happened;  the  tiny  segment  of  the  curve  of 
events  we  call  the  Present  is  not  the  best  vantage  point 
from  which  to  grasp  the  mighty  wheel  of  life.  Even  the 
norm  of  our  existence  may  not  have  been  the  norm  of 
remotest  ages  past.  As  Ibsen  said,  perhaps  two  and 
two  make  five  on  the  planet  Jupiter.  Our  reason  is  the 
crystallisation  of  ancient  experiences.  The  constancy  of 
the  human  intellect  proclaimed  by  Remy  de  Gourmont 
may  be  one  more  metaphysical  illusion.  Historical  per 
spective  is  too  limited  to  permit  any  but  vague  general 
isations.  As  for  fatalism,  what  else  are  those  who  write 
and  speak  of  Free-Will,  Immanence  of  the  Deity,  but 
fatalists?  If  the  exterior  world  is  a  mirage  of  our  inner- 
self  then  the  lack  of  continuity,  the  fragmentary  attempts, 


ETERNITY  AND  THE  TOWN   PUMP      317 

the  disjoined  thinking  without  sequence  or  import,  are 
not  all  these  things  natural  for  the  reason  that  they  are? 
The  queer  being  that  peers  at  us  over  the  back  wall  of 
our  consciousness,  our  phantom  twin,  our  true  self,  the 
wanderer  and  his  shadow,  the  old  man  of  the  sea,  Sinbad's 
unwelcome  burden,  our  sublimal  consciousness,  as  the 
psychoanalysts  call  it — what  is  this  mocking  devil  doing 
there,  sneering  at  our  pretenses,  and  laughing  when  we 
fall  and  skin  our  mean  little  souls?  Is  he  Brother  Death? 
We  carry  this  companion  from  the  cradle  to  the  coffin. 
We  appease  him  with  our  heart's  blood  and  with  our 
flimsy  lies  and  sometimes  succeed  in  stifling  his  importu 
nate  and  accusing  voice.  What  if  the  neighbours  should 
hear  him  scolding  in  the  reaches  of  the  night !  What 
a  scandal  that  would  be ! 

Most  men  and  women  die  disappointed  with  life, 
which  they  think  has  played  them  a  scurvy  trick.  And 
it  has.  Its  chief  function  is  to  illude  and  then  dis 
appoint  our  false  hopes.  The  majority  of  humans  die 
of  spiritual  arterio-sclerosis,  the  result  of  a  too  high 
blood  pressure,  caused  by  vain  imaginings.  Your  doctor 
detects  the  danger  with  his  sphygmograph,  your  spiritual 
director  also  employs  his  sphygmograph;  examination  of 
the  conscience.  It  is  often  efficacious.  The  chief  thing 
it  shows  you  is  that  life,  at  first  a  feast  planned  by  the 
almighty  Barmecide  host,  proves  to  be  a  succession  of 
appearances;  his  guests  never  taste  essences,  only  yearn 
for  them  from  afar.  Our  five  senses  play  the  immortal 
game  to  perfection.  The  efferent  nerves  carry  from  our 
centre  a  filament  message  to  the  exterior;  our  afferent 
nerves  return  to  us  the  message  of  the  world  without. 
Literally  we  are  imprisoned  for  life,  with  the  privilege  of 


318  STEEPLEJACK 

telephoning  our  cerebral  central  to  ask  it  to  phone  us  the 
news  of  outer  existence.  It's  the  greatest  fairy-tale 
imaginable,  our  life.  But  it  is  not  free — oh,  no!  In  a 
physical  sense  we  are  the  grandchildren  of  vegetables 
which  live  by  solar  heat;  and  of  the  so-called  lower  ani 
mals — query:  why  lower?  Like  them  we,  too,  are  au 
tomatons,  ruled  by  the  same  rigid  laws;  we  borrow  vitality 
from  the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  we  are  nourished  by 
this  triple-distilled  solar  energy.  Nature  is  not  always 
coherent,  and  De  Vries,  the  Dutch  scientist,  showed  me, 
when  I  visited  his  garden  at  Amsterdam  in  1912,  that 
nature  can  create  by  leaps,  as  well  as  by  orderly  prog 
ress.  This  philosopher-physicist  actually  produced  new 
species  of  flowers  overnight.  Our  nervous  system  is  the 
whole  animal.  And  these  nerves  may  be  so  finely  spun 
that  they  receive  messages  from  the  Fourth  Dimension 
of  Space.  Life,  asserts  Bergson,  is  a  division,  a  dissocia 
tion,  not  association,  not  an  addition  of  elements.  And 
at  the  end  the  philosopher  knows  as  much  as  the  peas 
ant.  But  the  philosopher  doesn't  believe  this. 

Personal  liberty  is  another  chimera.  To  be  sure,  man 
is  born  with  a  skin,  not  with  a  carapace  like  a  tortoise, 
nor  is  he  unwieldy  like  the  elephant.  He  is  the  lord  of 
the  soil  only  for  a  certain  period.  Napoleon,  the  super 
man  of  modern  times,  remarked:  "Liberty  is  the  neces 
sity  of  a  small  and  privileged  class,  endowed  by  nature 
with  faculties  higher  than  those  of  the  mass  of  mankind; 
it  may,  therefore,  be  abridged  with  impunity.  Equality, 
on  the  contrary,  pleases  the  multitude."  He  practised 
what  he  preached.  Of  fraternity  he  said  nothing,  prob 
ably  because  there  is  nothing  to  say,  even  if  you  call  it 
by  such  a  high-sounding  name  as  altruism.  It  is  like 


ETERNITY  AND  THE  TOWN   PUMP      319 

one  of  those  ornamental  banners  that  hang  out  in  fine 
weather,  but  when  it  rains  it  is  quickly  folded  and  brought 
indoors.  And  it  usually  rains  in  the  land  of  fraternity. 
I  began  my  "dark  saying  on  the  harp"  and  I  fear  it  is 
ending  in  obscurity.  What  am  I  trying  to  prove? 
Nothing.  In  life  nothing  can  be  proved,  except  dis 
illusion,  and  that  may  be  escaped  by  self-study,  as  does 
an  entomologist  a  formidable  bug;  and  by  the  same 
token  anything  may  be  proved,  even  the  victory  of 
Zeno's  tortoise  over  the  swifter-paced  Achilles.  The  sea 
lives  without  the  approval  of  man,  collaborating  only 
with  the  winds.  But  we  live  by  a  parallel  of  our  sensa 
tions,  so  we  worry  if  the  tide  and  weather  are  not  pro 
pitious.  Hence  the  priest,  hence  the  ruler  in  the  scheme 
of  civilisation.  Voltaire  was  short-sighted  when  he  said 
that  mankind  would  not  be  free  until  the  last  king  was 
strangled  by  the  bowels  of  the  last  priest.  Religion  and 
government  were  not  invented  by  priests  and  kings  to 
enslave  us.  Our  organic  needs  evolved  them.  What  a 
cosmical  joke  it  would  be  if,  after  the  inhabitants  of  this 
planet  had  forsaken  all  gods,  one  really  existed;  a  god  of 
irony,  smiling  within  the  walls  of  some  unknown  dimen 
sion,  the  Nth  of  mystic  mathematicians,  a  Moloch  of  the 
ether  spying  his  hour  to  drop,  as  drops  a  boa-constrictor 
from  a  tree,  upon  deluded  mankind.  Perhaps,  suspect 
ing  some  such  celestial  denouement,  Pascal  made  his 
wager  with  himself — the  celebrated  "pari  de  Pascal" — in 
which  he  demonstrated  himself  a  more  subtle  Jesuit  than 
the  Order  of  Jesus  he  so  denounced  in  his  cruel,  brilliant 
Provincial  Letters.  His  bet  was  a  bit  of  theological 
sophistication.  If,  he  said,  you  make  your  peace  with 
God  before  you  die  you  are  on  the  safe  side  whether 


320  STEEPLEJACK 

there  is  a  paradise  or  not.  Pascal,  a  master  of  the  iron 
certitudes  of  geometry  and  the  higher  spatial  dimen 
sions,  has  always  been  to  me  a  giant  intellect  that  could 
believe  and  disbelieve  with  equal  ease.  There  are  such 
anomalies  in  the  fauna  and  flora  of  the  human  soul. 


PART  III 

NEW  YORK 

(1877-1917) 


I 

I  CAPTURE  THE  CITY 

I  was  forced  to  drain  my  dree.  My  sudden  little 
enthusiasms  were  beginning  to  pall.  Stung  by  the  gad 
fly  of  necessity,  I  had  to  follow  my  market:  all  news 
paper  men  must.  I  was  to  learn  that  versatility  is  not 
heaven  sent,  but  is  largely  a  matter  of  elbow-grease. 
Some  one  has  written  that  genius  is  mainly  an  affair  of 
energy,  which  puts  the  blacksmith,  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
and  the  baseball  player  in  the  same  category.  If  it  were 
only  so,  then  the  man  of  genius  would  rub  elbows  with 
mediocrity.  I  have  always  had  the  courage  of  my 
friendships.  Not  to  envy  some  particular  person  for 
his  accomplishments  is  to  proclaim  yourself  hopelessly 
self-satisfied;  nevertheless,  I've  never  met  anyone  with 
whom  I  would  change  places,  except  a  dead  man.  You 
may  have  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star  and  remain 
a  happy  insect.  It  demands  something  more  than  tech 
nical  heroism  to  write  your  autobiography.  The  life  of 
Samuel  Johnson,  that  ranks  its  author  among  the  greatest 
of  the  world's  biographers,  canny  James  Boswell,  a  por 
trait-painter  without  parallel,  has  also  presented  us  with 
a  self-portrait  that  matches  his  masterly  delineation  of 
the  great  Cham.  Who  reads  Rasselas  nowadays,  or 
consults  the  once  celebrated  dictionary?  I  confess  to 
liking  the  Tour  to  the  Hebrides  by  this  most  perfect  of 
John  Bulls.  But  BoswelPs  Johnson!  After  all,  auto 
biography  is  superior  fiction.  Nietzsche  has  warned  us 


4  STEEPLEJACK 

against  accepting  the  confessions  of  great  men — meaning 
Wagner.  Writing  one's  history  is  a  transposition  of  the 
embalmer's  art  to  the  printed  page.  Like  the  Egyp 
tians  we  seek  to  preserve  our  personality.  The  Egyptian 
way  has  lasted  longer.  We  think  of  the  mighty  Milton 
when  he  modestly  confessed:  "For  although  a  poet,  soar 
ing  in  the  high  reason  of  his  fancies,  with  his  garland 
and  singing  robes  about  him,  might,  without  apology, 
speak  more  of  himself  than  I  mean  to  do;  yet  for  me 
sitting  here  below  in  the  cool  element  of  prose,  a  mortal 
among  many  readers  of  no  empyreal  conceit,  to  venture 
and  divulge  unusual  things  of  myself,  I  shall  petition 
to  the  gentler  sort,  it  may  not  be  envy  to  me."  And 
leaning  heavily  on  the  illustrious  John,  as  must  all  soul- 
spillers,  I  shall  proceed  with  these  avowals  of  a  personal 
pronoun. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  man  who  proposed 
remarriage  to  his  divorced  wife?  She  was  one  of  the 
old  guard  who  sighs  but  never  surrenders.  A  skinny  girl 
with  guilty  eyes,  her  soul  had  become  a  slumbering 
forest.  But  she  was  faithful  to  her  alimony.  There 
fore,  when  her  husband  became  imprudent,  she  calmly 
answered:  "You  always  were  so  impetuous!"  He  was 
one  of  those  men  to  whom  "God  has  given  a  forehead" 
as  Russian  peasants  say  of  the  bald.  Her  pent-up  cas 
cades  of  tenderness  not  freely  flowing  he  went  away  in 
a  huff  and  remarried  his  other  divorced  wife.  But  the 
first  lady's  bank-account  knew  no  husband.  She  re 
mained  single  and  an  alimonist  in  perpetuity.  It  was 
certainly  the  end  of  an  imperfect  day.  The  moral  is 
not  afar  to  seek.  I  had  been  unfaithful  to  my  birth 
place.  I  had  hankered  after  the  flesh-pots  of  Paris. 
These  failing,  I  had  returned  to  my  lawful  first  love, 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY 


and  discovered  that  she  was  indifferent  to  me.  I  deter 
mined  on  another  alliance.  A  third  attack  of  that  brief 
epilepsy  called  love  had  begun.  I  was  in  the  doldrums 
of  despair.  I  might  have  reproached  Philadelphia  as 
De  Quincey  did  "  stony-hearted  step-mother  Oxford 
Street."  Anywhere,  anywhere  out  of  the  town.  I  had 
not  even  the  consolation  of  those  new  cults,  unscientific, 
unchristian,  and  absurd,  that  elevate  religion  to  the  dig 
nity  of  a  sport.  I  dreamed  of  becoming  a  writer,  but  I 
realised  that  splendour  of  style  without  spiritual  elevation 
is  like  a  gewgaw  in  a  pawnbroker's  window.  And  the 
sacrifices  one  must  make  are  enormous.  A  leading- 
motive  in  Faust,  "Renounce  thou  shalt;  shalt  renounce !" 
sounded  for  the  first  time  in  the  symphony  of  my  ego. 
Suddenly  one  night  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  thought:  To 
morrow  !  New  York !  In  the  morning  I  packed  my 
bag  and  slipped  away  on  an  afternoon  train  without  a 
godspeed  save  from  one  faithful  soul.  I  was  to  take 
another  bath  of  multitude.  The  month  was  February, 
the  year  1886. 

It  was  nearing  dusk  when  from  the  ferry-boat  I  saw 
my  new  home,  but  unlike  Rastignac  in  Balzac's  fiction, 
I  did  not  shake  my  fist  at  the  imposing  city  nor  mutter: 
"A  nous  deux  maintenant !"  I  never  even  thought  of  that 
duel  with  Paris  in  which  no  man  was  ever  victor.  I  only 
wondered  where  I  should  sleep.  I  soon  decided.  I 
landed  at  Twenty-third  Street  ferry,  caught  a  crosstown 
car,  alighted  at  Broadway  and  walked  down  to  Four 
teenth  Street;  there  to  get  a  lodging  for  the  night  in  the 
old  Morton  House.  The  room  cost  one  dollar,  the  win 
dow  was  on  the  square,  and  from  it  I  could  see  the  Ever 
ett  House,  the  Union  Square  Hotel,  and  the  statue  of 
Lincoln.  That  section  of  the  town  was  to  become  my 


6  STEEPLEJACK 

happy  hunting-ground  for  over  twenty-five  years,  and 
New  York  my  home  for  three  decades,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  excursions  to  Europe.  A  new  Avatar !  My 
brother,  Paul,  had  warned  that  if  I  became  a  resident  of 
Gotham  then  I  should  have  no  place  to  go  to:  an  epigram 
that  has  since  been  appropriated  without  due  credit. 
"J'y  suis,  j'y  reste,"  said  I  in  the  immortal  phrase  of 
Marechal  MacMahon.  Besides,  after  Paris,  the  modu 
lation  to  New  York  was  simple — and  no  city,  not  even 
Philadelphia,  is  so  unlike  Paris  as  New  York.  I  didn't 
feel  in  the  least  provincial.  Paris  had  lent  me  aplomb, 
had  rubbed  off  my  salad  greenness. 

Thirty  years  ago  the  sky-line  from  Jersey  City  was 
not  so  inspiring  as  it  is  to-day,  but  from  the  heights  of 
the  Hudson  the  view  was  then,  as  now,  magnificent. 
Above  Wall  Street,  on  Broadway,  and  east  of  it,  was 
a  congested  business  district.  A  few  spires,  Trinity 
Church,  the  Tribune  Building,  the  Times  Building,  were 
conspicuous  objects  from  the  bay.  Now  you  search  for 
Trinity  between  cliffs  of  marble,  while  in  New  Jersey  you 
catch  the  golden  gleam  of  the  World's  dome.  The  Wool- 
worth  Building,  among  many,  has  distanced  it  in  the 
race  skyward.  What  a  difference,  too,  there  was  lower 
down.  The  Battery,  a  clot  of  green,  was  surrounded 
by  a  few  imposing  buildings,  to-day  mere  impediments 
for  their  loftier  neighbours.  Walt  Whitman's  Mast- 
hemmed  Manhatta  had  an  actual  meaning  then;  now 
Manhattan  is  funnel-encircled,  and  in  a  few  years  it 
may  be  the  nesting  spot  of  bird-men.  You  could  see 
churches  then.  Here  and  there  a  spire  like  a  sharpened 
lead-pencil  protruded  from  the  background.  To-day,  one 
makes  pilgrimages  to  them  through  stony  canyons.  The 
city  was  torn  up,  as  it  had  been  fifty  years  earlier  when 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY 


Dickens  visited  it,   as  it  is  in  1919.     New  York  thrives 
best  amidst  excavations. 

That  first  night  is  still  vivid.  A  February  thaw  had 
set  in.  The  evening  was  mild.  I  sauntered  from  my 
hotel,  if  not  captain  of  my  soul,  anyhow  of  my  slender 
purse.  Leaving  so  unexpectedly  I  had  not  prepared  for 
the  inevitable.  I  had  a  few  friends,  but  I  preferred  not 
troubling  them.  It  was  to  be  bareback  riding  for  the 
future.  But  I  had  to  eat  my  supper.  I  had  dined  at 
the  unfashionable  hour  of  i  p.  M.  I  went  straight  to  a 
cafe;  I  had  been  there  the  previous  summer.  It  stood  on 
Fourteenth  Street,  east  of  Fourth  Avenue,  and  faced 
Steinway  Hall,  a  prime  magnet  for  me.  The  cafe  was 
kept  by  an  old  couple,  the  Lienaus,  and  was  the  head 
quarters  of  the  musical  aristocracy.  The  men  sat  below 
stairs  in  the  cafe,  and  watched  Mother  Lienau  count  the 
cash  or  scold  George,  the  fat  bartender.  She  called 
him  "Schorch,"  and  he  was  simply  a  treasure,  an  adipose 
angel  of  amiability.  To  hear  him  address  the  irritable  old 
woman  as  "Mamma"  was  touching,  especially  as  he  al 
ways  winked  at  us  when  she  asked  for  a  drink.  Up 
stairs  was  the  drawing-room  of  the  establishment,  and 
there  Papa  Lienau  reigned.  He  was  as  tall  and  massive 
as  his  wife  was  short  and  pudgy.  His  rule  was  clement. 
Not  to  raise  a  row  over  anything,  that  was  the  one  law. 
And  no  one  ever  did.  A  room  in  the  rear  held  a  piano  and 
from  it  I  have  heard  music  made  by  Joseffy,  Friedheim, 
Mills,  Neupert,  Sternberg — who  can  do  more  amusing 
stunts  on  the  keyboard  than  any  pianist — Ansorge,  and 
the  herculean  Rosenthal.  But  no  one  was  present  when 
I  entered  the  cafe  that  evening  and  ordered  a  humble 
meal.  Later  in  the  evening  I  met  nearly  every  man 


8  STEEPLEJACK 

that  later  was  to  have  a  finger  in  my  personal  pie.  I  took 
a  walk  and  got  as  far  as  Liichow's,  a  few  doors  below. 
There  I  was  introduced  to  Otto  Floersheim,  the  editor  of 
The  Musical  Courier.  Hugh  Craig  introduced  me.  Hugh 
was  a  cultivated  Englishman  I  had  met  at  the  "Keg" 
on  Broad  Street.  I  had  sold  my  first  story  for  five  dollars 
to  the  editor  of  the  West  Philadelphia  Telephone,  and  I 
promptly  spent  the  money  with  that  jolly  chap,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten.  While  doing  this  in  strolled 
Hugh  Craig  and  a  friendship  began  that  ceased  with  his 
death,  twenty  years  afterwards.  Craig  was  that  ideal 
person,  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  A  university  man 
he  was  also  a  man  of  the  world,  of  gentle  breeding,  and 
he  was  never  in  a  hurry.  No  newspaper  in,  which  he 
worked  needed  an  encyclopaedia.  He  seemed  to  know 
everything,  and  could  write  without  preparation  on  any 
topic.  A  linguist,  he  could  speak  no  language  fluently 
but  his  own,  though  he  could  translate  from  a  dozen. 
He  always  had  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  and  there  was  a 
slight  burr  on  his  speech,  which  may  have  argued  a  Scotch 
strain.  He  was  a  good  friend,  and  like  Sam  Johnson, 
he  was  ever  ready  for  a  "frisk."  He  was  of  a  dusty,  in 
definite  age,  about  twenty  years  my  senior.  Otto  Floer 
sheim  made  no  impression  on  me,  except  that  he  was  fat, 
rather  pompous,  good-humoured,  and  perspiring. 

We  went  back  to  Lienau's,  there  to  meet  the  senior 
editor  of  The  Musical  Courier,  chunky,  shrewd,  and  with 
the  most  piercing  and  brilliant  eyes  I  ever  saw  in  a 
human's  head.  They  were  jewelled,  gleaming,  and  as 
hard  as  agate.  I  had  met  Marc  Blumenberg  the  summer 
of  1885  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  New  York,  where  a 
meeting  of  the  Music  Teachers'  National  Association 
was  in  session.  Theodore  Presser,  of  the  Etude  intro- 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY 


duced  me.  I  had  liked  the  plump  little  Hebrew,  and 
I  continued  to  like  him  till  the  day  of  his  death.  He  it 
was  who  gave  me  my  first  leg  up  over  the  fence  in  New 
York,  and  I  shall  never  forget  his  kindness.  We  chatted. 
I  can  see  him,  napkin  tucked  under  his  chin,  preparing 
to  eat;  he  was  a  solid  trencherman.  He  took  me  in  with 
his  cool,  measuring  glance,  and  when  I  told  him  that  I 
wrote  about  music,  he  bade  me  drop  into  the  office  of 
The  Musical  Courier,  then  at  25  East  Fourteenth  Street. 
It  was  a  year  or  so  before  I  accepted  that  invitation. 
What  Craig  and  I  did  that  night  has  slipped  me.  The 
next  morning  I  was  up  and  doing,  for  I  had  slept  well, 
thanks  to  my  bad  conscience.  I  went  in  search  of  a 
more  suitable  residence,  and  a  cheaper.  Jacques  Reich, 
the  engraver,  had  an  atelier  at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Four 
teenth  Street,  and  to  him  I  explained  my  wants.  He 
had  lived  in  Philadelphia  and  I  think  did  my  father's 
head  in  crayon.  He  proved  obliging.  Soon  I  found  a 
comfortable  room,  top  floor,  at  the  corner  of  Thirteenth 
Street  and  Seventh  Avenue.  In  the  row  of  houses  with 
porches  standing  well  away  from  the  sidewalk,  on  Seventh 
Avenue,  is  No.  40.  The  row  may  be  still  seen  looking 
as  it  did  thirty-two  years  ago.  Across  the  street  was  the 
Fanwood.  S.  B.  Mills,  a  famous  pianist,  lived  in  the 
block,  composed  for  the  most,  of  boarding-houses.  Mrs. 
Genevieve  Ferris  was  my  landlady,  and  the  most  motherly 
of  women.  She  was  handsome,  and  had  a  masterful 
way,  which  came  natural  as  she  was  a  custom-house  in 
spector,  and  on  the  steamship  docks  every  day.  The 
boarders  were  only  five  or  six  young  men.  We  paid 
eight  dollars  a  week,  and  complained  if  we  didn't  get 
beefsteak  at  breakfast.  O,  the  blessed  time  !  No  wheat- 
less,  meatless,  heatless,  sinless,  thirstless  days  then.  I 


io  STEEPLEJACK 


shook  down  at  once  in  a  tub  of  butter.     But  how  to  put 
in  my  time  was  the  problem. 

At  noon,  after  my  belongings  had  been  transferred 
and  I  could  look  a  policeman  in  the  eye,  feeling  a  home 
less  vagabond  no  longer,  I  crossed  Fourteenth  Street  to 
University  Place,  then  to  the  right  and  found  myself  at 
the  hospitable  cafe  of  Billy  Moulds'.  It  should  not  be 
forgotten  that  in  New  York,  as  in  Paris,  the  cafe  is  the 
poor  man's  club.  It  is  also  a  rendezvous  for  newspaper 
men,  musicians,  artists,  Bohemians  generally.  It  is  the 
best  stamping-ground  for  men  of  talent.  Ideas  circulate. 
Brain  tilts  with  brain.  Eccentricity  must  show  cause 
or  be  jostled.  If  there  is  too  much  drinking,  there  is  the 
compensation  of  contiguity  with  interesting  personalities. 
In  those  abodes  of  prim  dulness,  so-called  religious  clubs 
for  young  men  without  a  thirst,  I  never  saw  any  signs  of 
life  except  the  daily  newspapers.  I  am  not  concerned 
with  the  salvation  of  my  brother's  soul,  having  my  hands 
full  of  my  own,  but  if  hedging  a  growing  youth  about 
with  moral  wire- fences  will  keep  him  "straight,"  then  his 
intellectual  growth  is  not  worth  a  copper.  At  the  first 
puff  of  reality,  of  the  world  as  it  actually  is,  he  will 
collapse.  Until  mankind  changes — which  it  hasn't  since 
the  tertiary  geological  epoch — or  something  better  is  de 
vised  than  the  cafe,  that  institution  will  continue  to  form 
and  develop  the  adolescent  male.  Clubs  are  too  expen 
sive  for  the  majority  of  us.  The  present  interlude  of 
hypocrisy  and  bigotry  from  which  our  nation  is  now 
suffering  will  surely  be  followed  by  a  violent  reaction, 
and  like  such  reactions,  the  pendulum  will  swing  too  far 
in  the  opposite  direction.  Mankind  can  stand  just  so 
much  and  no  more.  Recall  the  Restoration  after  the 
reign  of  dreary  Puritanism  in  England;  and  what  were 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY  11 

the  Puritans  of  those  days  compared  with  our  oppressive 
breed !  Heaven  bless  their  bones !  those  roundheads 
consumed  tankards  of  ale  and  plenty  of  beef.  Their 
worst  offence  was  their  chronic  howling  of  hymns,  and 
their  forbidding  a  man  to  covet  his  neighbour's  wife  on 
Sundays;  also  forbidding  a  man  to  embrace  his  proper 
spouse  on  the  Sabbath;  an  edict  that  may  have  found 
favour  with  overworked  husbands.  But  those  Puritans 
with  their  "scarecrow"  sins  were  also  pious  politicians. 
Beware  a  pious  politician.  He  is  more  dangerous  than 
one  in  petticoats  (sometimes  he  is  in  petticoats).  As  to 
their  droning,  heaven,  like  hell,  is  paved  with  pious  vocal 
intentions;  otherwise  how  can  the  choir  angelic,  not  to 
mention  the  Great  White  Throne,  endure  the  ear-splitting 
bawling  wafted  upward  from  here  below?  Their  deity 
must  be  very  patient,  or  else  as  tone-deaf  as  his  unmusical 
worshippers.  Their  sincerity  is  no  excuse  for  sounds 
like  a  dog's  cough,  or  the  cackling  of  a  hoarse  parrot. 
God  can't  be  worshipped  beautifully  enough.  Little 
cause  to  wonder  if  a  man  with  sensitive  ears  prefers  the 
cafe  to  the  church. 

The  first  man  I  met  at  the  Moulds  Cafe  was  Francis 
Saltus,  poet,  wit,  raconteur,  and  as  brilliant  as  his  brother, 
Edgar  Saltus.  With  the  solitary  exception  of  Oscar 
Wilde,  I  never  heard  a  human  discourse  so  eloquently  as 
Frank,  nor  have  I  ever  known  such  a  perfect  Bohemian. 
William  Dean  Howells  has  told  us  of  the  group  that 
gathered  at  Pfaff's  several  decades  before;  Fitz- James 
O'Brien  who  wrote  the  most  horror-breeding  short  story 
since  Poe,  "What  Was  It?"  or  some  such  title,  a  story 
that  is  as  vivid  as  de  Maupassant's  Horla,  and  one  that 
furnished  Ambrose  Bierce  with  the  motive  for  his  best 


12  STEEPLEJACK 

tale;  Walt  Whitman,  who  probably  drank  buttermilk, 
as  he  neither  smoked  nor  touched  alcoholic  beverages, 
and  a  lot  of  chaps,  Arnold  among  the  rest,  whose  names 
are  writ  in  water.  The  Moulds  contingent  was  not  so 
celebrated,  but  the  actors,  singers,  painters,  poets,  news 
paper  men,  and  politicians  were  so  numerous  that  a  li 
brary  might  be  filled  with  the  recital  of  their  accomplish 
ments.  Frank  Saltus  had  lived  the  major  part  of  his 
life  in  Paris.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Theophile  Gautier 
circle,  and  a  protege  of  "le  bon  Theo,"  whose  polished 
technique  and  impassible  attitude  towards  life  and  art 
he  had  assimilated.  When  I  hear  the  frantic  clamourings 
made  by  uncritical  critics  over  some  newly-arrived  free- 
verse  bard  whose  "poetry"  is  a  jumble  of  Whitman  and 
falling  bricks,  I  wonder  if  they  ever  have  read  Francis 
Saltus.  He  was  a  poet,  a  pagan,  therefore  immoral. 
Now  the  "immorality"  is  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  by 
the  young  poetasters,  but  the  poetry  is  left  out.  We 
have  in  this  year  of  grace  many  "poets,"  but  no  Poet. 
(I  must  resort  to  obvious  capitalisation.)  Frank  Saltus 
carved  sonnets  from  the  solid  block.  He  wrote  epigrams 
at  fifty  cents  apiece  for  Town  Topics,  he  composed  feu- 
illetons  that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  Paris 
boulevardier.  His  habits  were  irregular,  though  he  got 
up  earlier  than  Willie  Wilde,  Oscar's  brother,  who  had 
married  Mrs.  Frank  Leslie  for  a  bedroom — so  he  said. 
And  Frank  Saltus  was  fond  of  absinthe,  another  imported 
habit  and  a  deadly  one.  But  I  never  saw  him  drunk, 
and  I  never  saw  him  without  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth. 
He  usually  arrived  about  noon  and  wrote  and  talked  till 
the  last  trump,  which  was  at  two  A.  M.;  sometimes  later. 
The  classic  type  of  Bohemianism  that  has  quite  vanished. 
He  was  a  ruin,  and  a  gentleman,  who  had  evidently  been 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY  13 

very  handsome.  The  photographs  taken  in  Paris  re 
vealed  him  as  a  Greek  god;  but  when  I  knew  him  his 
good  looks  were  historical.  Edgar  Saltus  was  handsome 
in  a  different  style,  dark,  Italian,  petit-maitre,  a  prose- 
master  and  a  philosopher. 

There  was  a  sufficing  cause  for  the  punctuality  of 
Frank,  and  the  rest  of  us  at  Moulds'.  Free-lunch !  Up 
at  the  Hoffman  House  you  could  eat  a  regular  course 
dinner  on  one  drink,  but  you  had  to  tip  the  waiter  a 
quarter;  at  Moulds'  there  were  no  tips,  nor  was  there  an 
assortment  of  dishes.  The  glory  of  the  establishment 
was  its  bean  soup,  hot,  savoury,  plentiful.  Oh !  that 
bean  soup.  How  many  famished  stomachs  it  soothed 
and  nourished  in  the  days  that  are  no  more !  Pardon 
me  if  I  shed  a  lyric  tear  over  its  memory.  Billy  Moulds 
retired  years  ago  to  darkest  Brooklyn,  and  when  I  meet 
him  I  speak  of  the  fabulous  soup.  His  invariable  an 
swer  is:  "It  saved  some  of  you  fellows'  lives,  didn't  it? 
But  do  you  remember  Otto  and  his  razzle-dazzle?"  I 
did.  He  meant  Otto  Floersheim,  who  had  devised  a 
mixture  of  brandy,  ginger  ale,  and  absinthe,  that  was 
warranted  to  knock  a  horse  down.  It  never  fazed  Floer 
sheim,  who  introduced  the  concoction  to  Albert  Niemann, 
the  Wagnerian  tenor,  a  drinker  that  would  have  pleased 
Pantagruel.  To  see  this  pair  of  monsters  guzzle  the 
poison  made  shudder  a  sensitive  and  beer-absorbing  soul. 
Niemann  could  booze  all  night  till  next  midday,  and  then 
sing  Siegmund  that  evening  in  a  marvellous  manner. 
But  not  marvellous,  vocally  speaking.  His  acting,  the 
assumption  of  the  character,  was  the  chief  interest.  His 
voice  had  gone  before  he  visited  us.  In  fact  it  was  be 
ginning  to  go  at  the  first  Baireuth  Festival  in  1876. 

That  bean  soup  was  a  mainstay  for  us  when  the  weather 


14  STEEPLEJACK 

was  unfavourable  to  our  pocketbooks.  And  there  were 
plenty  of  rainy  days.  The  critical  business  is  a  precarious 
one.  Writing  of  any  sort  still  is  unless  you  manufacture 
a  "best-seller,"  and  that  is  what  we  all  try  for.  The 
cashier  at  Moulds'  was  a  brother  of  the  boss  and  had 
been  a  keeper  at  the  Trenton  State  prison.  Need  I  add 
that  Tom  Moulds  was  judge  of  human  nature !  Smiling, 
sympathetic,  he  would  take  my  proffered  check — not  a 
bank  cheque — and  "hang  it  up"  on  my  always  growing 
account.  "I  see  it's  not  Delmonico's  to-day,  bean  soup, 
eh?  Well,  it's  healthier  and  more  filling — and  it's  on 
the  house,  like  a  tin-roof."  He  jested,  but  he  had  a 
warm  heart  and  an  open  purse.  I  could  fill  pages  with 
the  names  of  illustrious  actors  who  patronised  Moulds'. 
Visiting  English  actors  went  there  instinctively,  it  was 
homelike,  quiet,  few  quarrels  (before  midnight),  and 
good-fellowship  was  never  absent.  The  old-timers  I 
met  were  Frank  Mordaunt,  Frank  Evans,  J.  B.  Studley, 
Walter  Turner,  and  an  Englishman  named  Liston. 
I've  seen  Booth,  Barrett,  McCuIIough,  and,  once  only, 
Lester  Wallack,  there.  The  musical  crowd  were  unfail 
ing  visitors.  I  met,  every  evening,  Augustus  Brentano, 
the  senior  brother  of  the  well-known  book-sellers,  whose 
big  store  was  on  Union  Square  next  to  Tiffany's.  Joseffy 
and  Franz  Rummel — who  married  Leila  Morse,  the 
daughter  of  S.  F.  B.  Morse — Sauret,  Ovide  Musin,  Ysaye, 
Gerardy,  Max  Heinrich.  Who  didn't  go  to  Moulds'? 
Many  the  commission  to  write  I  got  in  its  shadowy  back 
room.  The  music  trade-journalists  congregated  there. 
In  those  days  trade- journalism  had  not  been  standardised; 
the  same  with  the  weekly  sheets  devoted  to  theatricals. 
Each  editor  was  a  sharp-shooter — and  often  a  free 
booter — on  his  own  account.  Their  pens  knew  no  brother. 


I   CAPTURE  THE  CITY  15 

Dickens  would  have  been  delighted  with  the  pages  of 
personal  vituperation  that  were  published  and  without 
bloodshed  ensuing.  The  vilest  abuse  was  bandied.  "If 
the  bug-juice  editor  who  was  found  by  the  police-patrol 
wagon  early  last  Sunday  morning  as  he  sat  on  the  curb 
stone  with  his  watch  dangling  in  the  gutter,  near  the 

M ds  Cafe"  (a  subtle  difference  indeed)  "does   not 

abandon  his  worship  of  Bacchus" — this  would  be  fol 
lowed  by  a  column  devoted  to  the  general  habits  of  the 
aforesaid  "bug-juice  editor,"  who  never  turned  a  hair, 
but  would  report  the  following  week  as  follows:  "Our 
readers  should  not  listen  to  the  piteous  appeals  of  a  poor, 
decrepit  barnstormer,  bad  actor,  fugitive  bankrupt,  who 
is  after  the  money  of  gullible  piano  manufacturers  to  keep 
his  rotten  little  sheet  from  perishing.  As  the  original 
pirate  in  the  trade  we  have  a  portrait  of  him  in  top- 
boots,  big  hat,  waving  the  piratical  black  flag  which  we 
would  only  be  too  happy  to  show  our  readers  in  case 
they  drop  in  (and  pay  their  new  subscriptions)  which 
accurately  places  him  on  the  map."  The  pot  calling  the 
kettle  black. 


II 

MUSICAL  JOURNALISM 

Theatrical  journalism  was  even  more  personal,  fisti 
cuffs  being  the  last  resort.  To-day  musical  journalism 
is  greatly  improved.  It  must  always  encourage  medi 
ocrity,  else  perish.  And  the  same  may  be  said  of  the 
daily  press.  The  music-critics  when  I  came  to  New 
York  were  Henry  T.  Finck,  of  The  Evening  Post;  H.  E. 
Krehbiel,  of  The  Tribune;  William  J.  Henderson,  of  The 
Times;  this  was  1887;  later  Mr.  Henderson  followed  me 
as  music  editor  of  The  Sun,  a  position  he  still  holds. 
John  T.  Jackson,  of  The  World;  Bowman,  of  The  Sun; 
his  wife,  Mrs.  Bowman,  succeeded  him;  Albert  Stein 
berg,  of  The  Herald,  then  a  real  force  in  the  musical 
world,  and  other  men  on  the  afternoon  newspapers,  such 
as  Willy  von  Sachs,  Edgar  J.  Levey,  both  dead.  Jack 
son  is  dead,  so  is  Steinberg,  but  the  rest  are  alive,  vigor 
ous,  and  still  "kicking."  It  is  the  function  of  a  critic 
to  "kick,"  otherwise  he  is  considered  moribund.  Add 
Richard  Aldrich  to  the  list — for  when  I  became  dramatic 
editor  of  The  Sun  in  1902,  there  was  quite  a  displacement 
in  our  frog-pond;  Henderson  left  The  Times  for  The  Sun; 
Aldrich,  the  assistant  music-critic  of  The  Tribune,  went 
to  The  Times,  Edward  Ziegler,  my  colleague,  took  over 
my  job  on  Town  Topics — where  for  years  I  had  more 
fun  than  in  a  circus — and  also  assumed  the  musical 
editorship  of  The  American  and  afterwards  The  Herald. 
And  Leonard  Liebling  followed  me  on  The  Musical 

16 


MUSICAL  JOURNALISM  17 

Courier.  To-day  Ziegler  is  a  young  chap  who  dyes  his 
hair  iron-grey  in  order  to  appear  older.  At  the  Metro 
politan  Opera  House  he  is  closely  allied  to  Director  Gatti- 
Casazza.  All  these  men — Ziegler  excepted — I  worked 
with  from  the  beginning  and  they  are  still  my  friends. 
Something  to  boast  about  if  you  realise  that  the  "artistic 
temperament"  pervades  the  soul  of  the  music-critic; 
that  a  more  "touchier"  set  of  humans  would  be  difficult 
to  find — except  actors;  a  critic  is  thinner-skinned  than 
his  victims  and  hates  to  be  criticised.  We  had  our  little 
tiffs  but  no  serious  embroilments.  Albert  Steinberg 
was  the  disruptive  force.  With  a  wit  that  was  posi 
tively  malignant  he  would  place  his  surgical  steel  on 
your  sorest  place,  and  your  vanity  bled.  He  had  a 
musical  ear,  much  experience,  sound  taste,  and  his 
guesses  were  often  as  telling  as  riper  knowledge.  But 
he  was  lazy,  a  race-course  gambler,  though  not  a  drink 
ing  man.  When  he  was  cremated  at  Fresh  Pond  a 
telegram  from  the  De  Reszke  brothers,  then  on  tour, 
was  the  only  intimation  that  the  dead  man  had  once 
occupied  a  commanding  position  in  the  metropolis. 
Musicians,  like  actors,  have  a  short  memory.  Steinberg 
was  a  powerful  aid  to  Lillian  Nordica  at  a  time  when 
she  needed  friends.  Maurice  Grau  told  me  this.  I  knew 
it  already;  nor  was  Madame  Nordica  ungrateful.  She 
possessed  a  big  heart.  Yet,  there  was  Steinberg  dead 
with  no  one  to  tender  his  remains  a  last  salute  except 
Theodore  Stein — who,  like  Madame  Frida  Ashforth,  took 
care  of  him  through  a  long  illness — and  a  few  faithful 
friends,  for  the  most  part  strangers  to  me.  However, 
Steinway  and  Sons  sent  a  representative.  As  for  his 
absent  colleagues,  it  must  be  said  that  Steinberg  had 
estranged  them  by  his  savage  tongue.  But  it  was  all 


1 8  STEEPLEJACK 

desperately  sad,  this  ending  of  a  brilliant,  cultivated,  if 
wayward  critic.  Music-criticism  as  a  profession — c'est 
du  cimetiere !  Or  the  crematory.  An  ill-omen  for  me, 
this  funeral. 

I  had  attended  one  of  the  Music  Teachers'  National 
Association  meetings  at  Indianapolis  in  the  summer  of 

1887.  These  M.  T.  N.  A.  affairs  were  interesting  to  pro 
vincial  professionals   and,    no   doubt,   useful;   for   New 
Yorkers,  they  smacked  much  of  the  local  festival  that 
blooms    in   the   spring.     But   I   was   too   young   to   be 
hypercritical  and  enjoyed  myself  with  the  rest.     Frank 
Van  Stucken,  of  Belgian  stock,  born  in  Texas,  conducted 
the  orchestra,  and  I  again  met  Marc  Blumenberg.     We 
became  more  intimate.     When  I  returned  to  New  York, 
I  visited  his  office  and  saw  much  of  him  and  his  partner, 
and  presently   I  was  writing  for   The  Musical  Courier, 
only  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.     I  didn't  get  salary  till 

1888.  As  my  father  often  remarked,  my  specialty  was 
working  for  other  people  at  reduced  rates.     But  I  had 
nothing  to  complain  of  in  regard  to  Blumenberg's  gen 
erosity,  nor  Floersheim's  either.     Otto  was  improvident, 
an  enraged  gambler,  plundered  by  the  bookmakers,  with 
a  childlike  credulity  in  "tips";  he  was  also  the  sort  of 
friend  who  would  take  off  his  coat  to  help  you.     I  judge 
these  two  men  as  I  found  them.     I  was  a  stranger  to 
them,  and  they  took  me  in.     No  doubt  I  was  useful. 
Blumenberg  was  a  pragmatic  Jew,  yet  no  more  prag 
matic  than   the   average   Gentile   business  man.      Both 
had  a  certain  reputation,  like  most  trade-journalists;  yet 
during  my  fifteen  years'  connection  with   The  Musical 
Courier  I  was  never  asked  to  do  anything  that  smelled 
queer,  nor  write  anything  but  what  I  saw  fit.     Once  only 
Blumenberg  attempted  to  coerce  me  and,  oddly  enough, 


MUSICAL  JOURNALISM  19 

it  concerned  The  Sun  and  not  his  own  journal.  I  have 
saved  the  letter  in  which  he  told  Driggs,  the  manager, 
that  if  I  didn't  cease  praising  Gadski  in  The  Sun  he 
would  get  Krehbiel,  of  The  Tribune,  to  write  my  depart 
ment,  entitled  "The  Raconteur."  This  was  such  a  joy 
ous  crack  that  the  little  editor  had  to  laugh  himself  when 
I  shrieked  at  the  suggestion.  Krehbiel  smiled,  too,  for 
"The  Raconteur"  was  a  rag-bag,  an  olla-podrida  page 
which  I  wrote  from  1887  to  1902.  Not  only  would 
Krehbiel  have  indignantly  rejected  the  offer,  but  try 
as  he  might  have  he  couldn't  manufacture  such  a  mess 
as  my  columns  of  gossip,  crazy  fantasy,  and  whirling 
comment.  And  that  was  the  only  time  I  had  a  dis 
agreement  with  Marc  Blumenberg.  The  joke  of  the 
matter  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  season  or  two  previous 
I  had  criticised  Madame  Gadski  in  The  Sun,  which  news 
paper  I  joined  in  1900,  and  Blumenberg  protested.  The 
reason?  Ask  me  not  in  gentle  numbers,  life  is  such  a 
dream ! 

Well,  for  fifteen  years  I  ran  amuck  in  The  Courier. 
Occasionally  Hugh  Craig,  his  literary  taste  outraged  at 
my  lack  of  method,  would  complain — he  edited  the 
"copy"  of  the  staff — and  an  indignant  subscriber  would 
protest  that  "The  Raconteur"  should  not  be  tolerated 
in  a  family  where  there  were  girls — Oh!  what  a  lot  of 
girl  readers  I  had  then.  I  know,  because  I  received  so 
many  letters  from  them — but  neither  Blumenberg  nor 
Floersheim  bothered  himself  about  me.  I  was  "Crazy 
Jim,  the  Idealist" — let  him  have  his  fling.  The  truth 
was  that  musical  journalists  lived  only  because  of  the 
rivalries  of  piano  manufacturers.  The  subscription  list 
didn't  much  matter;  indeed,  the  greater  the  number  of 
subscribers  the  higher  the  bills  for  paper  and  printing. 


20  STEEPLEJACK 

One  piano  house  could  support  a  trade-journal.  And 
logically  the  editorial  policy  of  attacking  the  music- 
critics  of  the  daily  press  was  inexpugnable.  There  could 
be  no  rapprochement.  They  were  the  enemy !  Crush 
them!  "Get  thee  gone,  girl,  but  the  girl  wouldn't  get 
thee  gone" — as  Hughey  Dougherty,  or  Lew  Simmons, 
used  to  sing  at  the  minstrel  shows.  The  critics  contin 
ued  to  write  what  they  believed  to  be  the  truth,  and  they 
were  attacked.  Who  was  to  blame  for  this  system? 
The  mediocrities  who  wished  pleasant  things  written  of 
them  in  the  trade-journals,  or  their  editors?  As  an 
ethical  question,  I  fancy  there  isn't  much  doubt  as  to 
the  answer,  but  as  a  business  proposition  there  is  some 
thing  to  be  said  for  the  musical  journals — or  the  box- 
office.  Business  is  such  a  ripe-rotten  affair  no  matter 
where  you  go  that  these  editorial  gentlemen  had  their 
self-justification.  I  never  judge,  fearing  judgment,  so  I 
can  only  say  that  to-day  conditions  are  different.  Music- 
trade  editors  ride  in  their  motor-cars,  are  heavy  bond 
holders  and  don't  bother  about  the  music-critics,  who 
are  the  same  ill-paid  pariahs  they  were  thirty  years  ago. 
Who  loves  a  critic?  Once  a  music-critic,  always  a  pau 
per;  that  is,  if  you  don't  marry  a  rich  girl,  or  are  not 
born  to  the  purple,  as  was  Reginald  De  Koven. 

The  world  takes  no  interest  in  the  quarrels  of  rival 
editors.  We  were  up  to  our  necks  in  scandals  and  libel 
suits.  The  Musical  Courier  was  sued  by  Fred  Schwab, 
former  music-critic  of  The  Times  and  Town  Topics,  for 
uttering  a  libel.  Poor  foolish  Floersheim  had  picked  the 
chestnuts  out  of  the  fire  for  other  people,  smarting  under 
Schwab's  attack  on  them  in  Town  Topics,  and  he  picked 
them  so  clumsily  that  The  Courier  had  to  retract  its  sen- 


MUSICAL  JOURNALISM  21 

timents,  or  heavily  suffer.  The  venerable  owner  of  The 
Times,  Mr.  Jones,  was  subpoenaed,  but  turned  so  deaf  in 
the  witness-chair  that  he  never  told  the  jury  why  Schwab 
had  been  discharged,  or  allowed  to  resign  from  The  Times. 
The  musical  town  sniggered.  The  Musical  Courier  did 
not.  Then  I  advised  Blumenberg  to  engage  Schwab  to 
write  criticism  on  the  opera,  and  he  did  so.  Fred  Schwab, 
a  practical  man  with  a  sly  sense  of  humour,  consented, 
and  behold !  the  quarrel  was  forgotten.  Krehbiel,  Hen 
derson,  Finck,  Irenseus  Prime-Stevenson,  and  Edgar  J. 
Levey  were  at  one  time  contributors  to  The  Courier,  and 
their  names  were  printed  at  the  top  of  the  editorial 
page.  This  was  as  early  as  1887  or  1888.  The  collab 
oration  didn't  last  long. 

Blumenberg  and  Floersheim  waxed  rich,  but  I  didn't. 
If  there  were  "ill-gotten  gains"  they  were  scrupulously 
concealed  from  me.  I  got  a  plain  living  for  my  work, 
and  I  worked  hard,  the  dreariest  kind  of  labour,  going  to 
every  tenth-rate  concert,  tramping  out  every  night,  wind 
or  weather  never  deterring  me,  to  Chickering  Hall,  to 
Steinway  Hall,  to  the  Academy,  to  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  Carnegie  Hall  was  not  built,  nor  was 
Aeolian  Hall;  we  went  to  Mendelssohn  Hall,  or  Madison 
Square  Garden  Concert  Hall.  In  the  nineties,  when 
Floersheim  definitely  retired  to  Europe,  I  had  a  freer 
hand,  and  I  edited  the  musical  section  in  an  easy-going 
fashion.  I  was  mildly  reproved  once  a  week  for  men 
tioning  the  names  of  the  other  critics,  and  as  I  was  with 
them  day  and  night,  I  didn't  heed  the  advice.  "You 
are  advertising  these  people  throughout  the  country," 
Marc  would  say,  but  he  didn't  interfere  till  years  had 
passed  and  the  enmity  became  uglier.  The  quarrel 
seemed  childish  to  me  then,  a  tempest  in  a  tin  can. 


22  STEEPLEJACK 

Blumenberg  got  the  notion  that  I  could  with  training  be 
made  useful  in  the  trade  department  of  The  Courier,  and 
for  many  months  he  took  me  with  him  from  Harlem  to 
Brooklyn,  interviewing  piano  manufacturers  and  dealers. 
I  wrote  grotesques  and  burlesques.  I  "created"  fictitious 
firms.  There  was  a  certain  Mr.  Diggs,  of  Pilltown,  whose 
adventures  were  chronicled  weekly  and,  I  dare  say, 
amused  or  else  saddened  some  readers.  But  I  didn't  have 
any  flair  for  business.  I  was  frivolous  when  I  should 
have  been  solemn,  and  Blumenberg  would  look  at  me 
reproachfully  or  giggle — he  was  a  grown-up  boy.  A 
man  of  musical  talent,  he  possessed  a  well-lined  intellect. 
He  was  a  student  of  history  and  a  patriot.  One  morning 
too  bright  and  too  early,  for  we  had  been  up  all  night, 
we  went  over  to  the  Ernest  Gabler  piano  manufactory 
and  there  I  was  introduced  to  the  head  of  the  house, 
after  being  duly  warned  to  be  careful.  I  was  very  care 
ful.  In  my  lightest  manner  I  said,  after  I  shook  hands: 
"Mr.  Gabler,  you  make  me  think  of  an  aunt  of  mine  we 
always  called  an  earnest  gabbler."  The  man's  face 
clouded,  then  turning  to  Marc  he  grimly  said:  "Bloomy, 
this  young  fellow  would  make  a  better  piano-tuner  than 
a  trade-journalist,  don't  you  think  so?"  We  left  in  a 
few  minutes  and  around  the  corner  Blumenberg  ex 
ploded.  I  was  nervous,  but  when  I  saw  him  holding  his 
sides  and  roaring  with  glee  I  felt  relieved.  The  silly  pun 
had  tickled  his  risible  rib,  and  even  if  he  had  lost  the 
advertisement,  he  would  have  laughed.  He  was  that 
kind  of  a  man.  He  was  also  another;  he  gave  much  in 
charity;  he  lent  money  to  the  music-teachers  he  was  sup 
posed  to  bleed.  I  know  this.  I  didn't  go  to  piano-tuning. 
I  was  already  a  tuner  of  criticism.  The  ending  of  Marc 
Antony  Blumenberg  was  not  without  that  touch  of  irony 


MUSICAL  JOURNALISM  23 

inherent  in  matters  mundane.  Although  he  was  up  to 
his  ears  in  criminal  libels  and  lawsuits,  he  died  at  Paris 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity.  The  American  colony,  headed 
by  the  American  Minister  and  musical  Paris,  honoured 
the  bier  of  the  dead  man;  the  newspapers  had  naught 
but  praise  for  his  unselfish  devotion  to  art.  Even  his 
most  ferocious  enemies  in  America  would  have  been 
silenced  by  such  an  imposing  demonstration.  His  faults 
no  doubt,  were  many,  but  he  boasted  virtues  that  some 
of  his  opponents  could  not.  Above  all,  he  was  not  a 
hypocrite.  If  he  called  the  kettle  black  he  cheerfully 
admitted  the  sootiness  of  the  pot.  I  never  came  in  con 
tact  with  a  more  agile  intellect,  nor  with  a  cheerier  nature 
than  his.  He  was  a  politician  born  who  had  the  misfor 
tune  to  operate  in  a  restricted  field.  Some  of  his  schemes 
and  dreams  which  seemed  extravagant  and  Utopian  at 
the  time — for  example,  a  piano  manufacturers'  trust — 
are  to-day  a  commonplace.  He  had  as  many  friends  as 
enemies,  and  he  raised  merry  hell  his  life  long. 

I  remember  speaking  of  a  few  cultivated  families  in 
Philadelphia  which  were  my  solace  during  the  dark  inter 
val  between  my  return  from  Paris  and  my  hegira  to  New 
York.  One  of  these  families  was  the  Houghs,  on  South 
Sixteenth  Street.  Mrs.  Hough,  before  her  marriage  to 
Isaac  Hough,  was  Mrs.  Amelia  Thibault,  and  the  mother 
of  three  sons,  my  closest  friends.  They  were  all  musical, 
and  with  their  cousin,  John  T.  Boyd,  we  were  a  phalanx 
of  enthusiasms.  The  Thibault  boys,  Frank,  Fritz,  and 
Carow,  were  of  French  descent  on  the  paternal  side; 
Fritz  died  from  fatigue  and  exposure  in  the  Spanish  War. 
Mrs.  Hough  was  a  fountain  of  affection.  She  was  a 
benign  influence  in  her  circle.  Dr.  Thomas  H.  Fen- 


24  STEEPLEJACK 

ton  and  his  wife,  born  Lizzie  Remak,  was  another 
musical  family.  Mrs.  Fenton  is  an  excellent  pianist. 
Dr.  Fenton,  a  singer  and  member  of  the  Orpheus. 
The  Mawsons,  on  Arch  Street,  were  well  known. 
Mrs.  Mawson,  an  Englishwoman  of  the  old  cultured 
school,  had  an  evening  at  home  where  you  would  meet 
artistic  people  worth  knowing.  Her  children  have  made 
a  name  for  themselves.  Harry  Mawson,  playwright; 
Edward  Mawson,  actor,  who  was  a  man  with  a  lovable 
personality;  the  young  women  were  musical  and  intellec 
tual.  Lucie  Mawson,  a  concert  pianist,  resides  in  Lon 
don,  where  she  plays  in  public  and  is  well-liked.  Through 
the  good  graces  of  this  family  I  was  introduced  to  the 
Garrigues,  of  New  York.  In  the  middle  eighties  they 
lived  on  Seventeenth  Street,  near  Union  Square.  To  say 
"  109  East"  sufficed  for  the  musical  elect.  It  was  a  cen 
tre  of  sweetness  and  light.  The  father,  Rudolph  Gar- 
rigue,  a  dynamic  Dane,  was  president  of  an  insurance 
company.  His  daughters  played,  sang,  and  wrote.  As 
their  mother  said  to  me:  "I  never  see  them  except  at 
meal-time,  but  I  hear  them  day  and  night."  This  with 
a  gesture  of  mock  despair;  she  belonged  to  a  generation 
less  strenuous,  a  generation  that  did  not  take  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  by  assault.  Several  of  them  have  attained 
distinction  as  musical  instructors.  The  eldest  daughter 
married  Professor  Thomas  Garrigue  Masaryk,  of  Prague, 
just  now  in  the  public  eye  as  first  president  of  the 
Czecho-SIovaks. 

In  this  household  I  was  gently  encouraged  in  my  vari 
ous  mild  lunacies.  The  pianist,  Eleanor  Garrigue  Fer 
guson,  married  to  Henry  Ferguson,  a  landscape-painter, 
had  advised  me  to  come  to  New  York;  like  most  New 
Yorkers  she  considered  Philadelphia  a  pent-up  Utica. 


MUSICAL  JOURNALISM  25 

In  1885  I  had  witnessed  the  debut  of  Fannie  Bloomfield 
Zeisler,  at  the  old  Academy  of  Music — she  played  Rubin 
stein's  D  minor  piano  concerto  with  such  fire  and  brilliancy 
that  the  conductor  and  orchestra  pantingly  followed  her 
impetuous  lead — and  I  met  so  many  artistic  people  at 
the  Garrigues'  that  I  then  and  there  renounced  the  city 
of  my  birth.  I  breathed  an  atmosphere  ozone-charged. 
The  idols  of  my  youth  were  to  be  seen  perambulating 
Irving  Place,  Union  Square,  Fourteenth  Street.  At 
Lienau's  you  might  see  William  Steinway  in  the  flesh,  an 
immense  political  influence,  as  well  as  a  musical.  Theo 
dore  Thomas  lived  on  East  Seventeenth  Street,  opposite 
the  Garrigues.  William  Mason  would  alight  from  the 
little  blue  horse-car,  which  ran  across  Seventeenth  Street, 
at  Union  Square.  He  lived  in  Orange,  N.  J.,  and  always 
stopped  at  Brubacher's,  where  he  met  S.  B.  Mills,  before 
beginning  his  lessons  at  Steinway  Hall.  A  polished 
pianist,  delightful  raconteur,  Mr.  Mason  could  discourse 
by  the  hour  about  Franz  Liszt,  with  whom  he  had  studied. 
And  then  there  were  to  be  seen  at  Lienau's,  Anton  Seidl, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  F.  Tretbar,  Nahum  Stetson,  Joseffy, 
Sternberg,  Rummel,  Scharwenka,  Lilli  Lehman,  Van  der 
Stucken,  Krehbiel,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Victor  Herbert,  Rosen- 
thai,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferdinand  von  Inten,  Charles  H. 
Steinway,  the  present  head  of  the  house,  and,  of  course, 
Max  Heinrich.  A  few  doors  down  the  block  was  Augustus 
Liichow's  restaurant  which  outlived  Lienau's,  and  a  host 
of  other  hostelries. 


Ill 

IN  THE  MAELSTROM 

After  I  left  the  quaint  Seventh  Avenue  house — I  had 
swarmed  up  a  column  from  the  second-story  piazza  to 
the  third,  and  though  it  was  a  warm  night  my  absence 
of  superfluous  attire  and  the  general  row  that  ensued  (it 
was  because  of  a  bet) — made  me  seek  lodgings  elsewhere. 
A  small  family  hotel  at  the  northeast  corner  of  Irving 
Place  and  Seventeenth  Street,  kept  by  an  elderly  couple, 
was  noted  for  its  cooking  and  cheerfulness.  Werle's,  too, 
was  an  artistic  rendezvous,  and  its  table-d'hote  dinner 
saw  many  celebrities.  There  were  always  entertaining 
companions.  It  was  one  of  those  houses  where  at  any 
time  before  midnight  the  sound  of  pianos,  violins,  violon 
cellos,  even  the  elegiac  flute  might  be  heard,  and  usually 
played  by  skilled  professionals.  There  was  also  much 
vocal  squawking.  Across  the  street  was,  still  is,  the 
pretty  Washington  Irving  house,  and  at  another  corner 
lived  Victor  Herbert.  From  the  vine-covered  entrance 
of  Werle's  I  often  heard  string  music  made  by  Victor 
Herbert,  Max  Bendix — then  concert-master  of  the 
Thomas  Orchestra,  and  a  Philadelphian — and  others. 
I  occupied  on  the  ground  floor  a  room  about  as  big  as  the 
one  I  had  lived  in  at  Paris.  It  held  a  bed,  an  upright 
piano,  a  trunk,  some  books,  and  music.  It  had  one  ad 
vantage,  it  was  easy  of  access,  and  one  disadvantage — 
I  never  knew  when  I  would  be  alone.  Friends  knocked 
on  the  window  with  their  sticks  at  all  hours  of  the  night. 

26 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  27 

They  also  sang  concerted  noises.  Finally,  I  stayed  out 
on  purpose  till  dawn  to  escape  their  intrusions.  The 
dining-room  was  in  the  basement,  a  New  York  institu 
tion.  I  was  soon  introduced  to  my  neighbour,  the  Red 
Countess,  Madame  Von  Shevitch.  Her  husband,  a 
pleasant  Russian  nobleman,  was  editor  of  a  radical  news 
paper.  She  was  a  large,  rather  stout  woman  with  red 
hair  of  the  rich  hue  called  Titian.  Her  face  was  too 
fleshy  for  beauty,  but  there  were  forms  and  accents  that 
told  of  its  past;  the  fine,  harmonious  brow,  the  intense  ex 
pression  of  the  eyes,  still  splendid  of  hue  and  delicately  set 
like  precious  jewels,  the  pallor  of  her  skin,  sulphur-white; 
her  aristocratic  bearing  and  the  contours  of  her  well- 
moulded  head  attracted  me  at  once.  She  spoke  fluently 
a  half-dozen  languages.  I  didn't  know  who  she  was,  as 
the  name  Von  Shevitch  was  just  one  more  Slav  in 
this  abbreviated  map  of  Europe.  But  when  Mother 
Werle  whispered  to  me:  "The  Red  Countess,  otherwise 
the  Golden-crested  Serpent,  otherwise  the  Princess  Raco- 
witza,  otherwise  Helena  von  Doenniges" —  "Stop,"  I 
cried.  "You  mean  Clotilde  Riidiger,  the  heroine  of 
George  Meredith's  novel,  The  Tragic  Comedians."  The 
moment  was  almost  historic.  It  sent  me  back  to  Mere 
dith  and  this  exasperating  clever  fiction,  written  in  his 
most  crackling,  incendiary  style.  This  woman  opposite 
me  at  table  who  ate  suet  dumplings  as  she  discoursed 
art,  philosophy,  fiction,  and  politics,  was  the  direct  cause 
of  the  death  of  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  of  whom  Bismarck 
had  said:  "When  he  goes  into  the  field  I'll  shut  up 
shop."  He  said  this  in  the  fifties.  Lassalle  was  a  fol 
lower  of  Karl  Marx  acharne,  though  he  soon  set  up 
a  rival  socialism,  a  democratic  socialism  with  a  new 
brand,  of  which  he  was  the  agitator.  This  handsome, 


28  STEEPLEJACK 

audacious  Jew,  brilliant  as  to  attainments,  an  orator  who 
could  wind  a  mob  around  his  voice,  had  made  love  to 
Helena  Von  Doenniges,  the  daughter  of  a  rich,  aristo 
cratic  Munich  family,  one  of  those  blown-in-the-glass  fam 
ilies  that  exist  to  make  plain  people  foam  at  the  mouth. 
Not  only  did  she  win  the  homage  of  this  leader  of  men, 
but  Richard  Wagner  had  admired  her  too  much  for  the 
peace  of  Cosima  von  Billow,  afterwards  his  wife,  Cosima 
Wagner.  But  the  haughty  Von  Doenniges  family  showed 
Lassalle  the  door.  They  also  set  a  cousin  on  him,  the 
Rumanian  Prince,  Yanko  Racowitza.  A  duel  followed, 
and  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  the  one  great  force  of  the  Social 
Democrats,  one  apparently  born  to  lead  the  German 
people  from  the  jungle  of  absolutism — Heinrich  Heine 
proclaimed  this — was  killed.  Worse  followed.  She  mar 
ried  the  poor  Prince,  and  when  he  died  of  galloping  con 
sumption  five  months  later  (a  form  of  her  revenge),  she 
married  a  handsome  actor,  Friedmann,  but  soon  divorced 
him.  Two  prima  donnas  in  one  family !  Then  she  mar 
ried  Serge  Von  Shevitch,  who  had  fled  from  Russia  after 
some  revolutionary  enterprise.  Although  an  aristocrat 
he  was  a  liberal,  too  liberal,  like  Prince  Krapotkin,  for  the 
autocracy  on  the  Neva.  She  had  lived  what  is  called 
"a  full  life."  Her  published  recollections  of  Lassalle  fell 
into  the  hands  of  George  Meredith.  The  Tragic  Come 
dians  followed.  She  was  bitter  over  that  book,  a  libel, 
she  told  me,  of  her  relations  with  the  grand  Democrat. 
She  had  known  intimately  Bulwer,  Dickens,  Liszt — 
always  philandering  after  girls — Napoleon  and  Eugenie, 
Bismarck,  and  a  forest  of  other  celebrities.  She  came  to 
America  in  1877,  and  remained  till  1890,  when  she  re 
turned  to  Munich,  and  after  sundry  vicissitudes  she  com 
mitted  suicide  in  1911,  a  few  days  later  than  her  hus- 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  29 

band's  self-murder.  Truly  a  Tragic  Comedian.  I  sup 
pose  I  was  influenced  by  her  version  of  the  case  and  wrote 
of  her  as  a  woman  abused,  but  Mr.  Meredith  stuck  to  his 
guns  and  amicably  informed  me  that  some  day  I  might 
be  brought  to  his  way  of  thinking.  Frank  Swinnerton  in 
his  authoritative  work  on  George  Meredith  treats  of  the 
matter  and  wonders  whether  I  am  a  Jew !  Possibly  be 
cause  I  had  quoted  the  word  "Chutzpe  ponem,"  applied 
to  Lassalle  by  some  of  his  co-religionists — meaning  im 
pertinent — Mr.  Swinnerton  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  a  driver  of  fat  oxen  must  himself  be  fat.  Lassalle 
had  been  known  as  "The  Social  Luther,"  and  his  fight 
ing  motto  was:  "State  Support  for  Co-operative  Produc 
tion."  He  was  not  in  sympathy  with  "passive  resist 
ance"  as  a  weapon  against  the  government.  A  fallacy, 
he  said.  "Passive  resistance  is  the  resistance  which  does 


not  resist.' 


And  this  "citizen  of  the  world,"  as  he  called  himself, 
fell  before  "The  shaky  pistol  of  the  unhappy  Danube 
Osier,"  Prince  Racowitza,  though  himself  a  dead  shot 
and  a  professed  anti-duellist.  To  show  you  that  Mere 
dith  had  sounded  the  insincerity  of  Helena,  when  I  asked 
her  why  she  hadn't  eloped  with  Lassalle,  she  calmly  re 
plied  that  she  had  enjoyed  a  brief  elopement.  He  was 
at  Righi-Kaltbad  for  his  health,  and  she  slipped  away 
from  her  parents  at  Geneva  and  went  to  her  lover.  At 
the  age  of  nearly  sixty-eight  she  wrote  another  volume  of 
memoirs.  Unblushingly  she  admitted  this  passionate 
intermezzo.  Perhaps  it  accounts  for  the  tragic  ending. 
Something  happened — incompatability  of  temperament 
may  be  discovered  in  five  minutes — and  the  lovers  never 
met  again.  I  asked  her  whether  her  family  had  disliked 
Ferdinand  Lassalle  merely  because  of  his  Jewish  blood, 


30  STEEPLEJACK 

and  she  smiled.  "My  grandmother  was  a  Jewess  and 
secretly  aided  our  affair.  No,  he  was  a  social  firebrand 
feared  by  Bismarck,  hated  by  Richard  Wagner,  and  then 
that  Countess  Hatzfeldt  affair" — he  had  been  very  friendly 
with  this  woman,  "and  many  other  things,  also  his  im 
petuous  manner  of  wooing."  I  have  her  picture,  after 
the  celebrated  portrait  by  Von  Lenbach,  which  she  sent 
me  in  the  keeping  of  Frida  Ashforth.  Her  beauty  in 
youth  must  have  been  exquisite,  for  exquisite  in  this  pale 
transcription  are  her  features  and  eyes.  I  saw  in  life 
the  glory  of  her  hair.  Why  did  the  Von  Shevitch  pair 
kill  themselves.  Poverty  for  one  reason,  self-disgust  and 
boredom  for  another.  They  had  lived  in  their  flush 
times  like  nabobs.  The  decadence  began  in  New  York. 
Werle's  house  was  not  precisely  palatial,  though  for 
lean  purses  a  paradise.  A  few  days  before  their  death 
Madame  Ashforth — who  is,  I  need  hardly  add,  a  famous 
vocal  teacher  in  New  York — saw  the  couple.  Naturally 
she  assisted  them  after  frantic  telegrams  had  reached 
her.  Helena  begged  her  not  to  give  Serge  Von  Shevitch 
money.  "He  spends  it  all  on  the  girls!"  What  an 
ending !  Meredith  could  have  written  a  still  more  tragic 
coda  to  his  story  if  he  had  known  it.  I  am  now  making 
amends  to  his  clairvoyance,  and  for  presumptuously  chal 
lenging  his  intuitions.  But  I  was  young,  and  believed 
what  women  told  me;  and  was  she  not  the  Red  Coun 
tess  !  What  childlike  faith  a  clever  woman  can  arouse 
when  she  plays  the  role  of  the  misunderstood;  especially 
when  she  confides  her  "misery"  to  a  young  fool! 

The  fascination  of  a  story  set  to  music,  sung  by  men 
and  women  in  a  picturesque  setting,  is  as  ancient  as  the 
immemorial  hills.  In  America  our  passion  for  opera  is 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  31 

divided  by  our  love  of  baseball;  yet  we  are  a  musical 
nation.  (I  preach  this  when  optimists  deny  it  after 
hearing  so  much  "canned  music.")  And  in  music  we  are 
neutral  (I  am  writing  of  pre-war  times.)  No  particular 
nationality  may  claim  exclusive  dominion  in  the  tone- 
art,  though  roughly  set  down  the  order  of  historical  pre 
cedence  is  this:  Italian,  German,  French,  English  and 
the  rest  somewhere  in  the  field.  I  have  heard  opera  in 
Yiddish,  in  Czech,  and  doubtless  opera  in  some  sort  of 
volapiik  will  be  sung  some  day.  I  mention  these  vari 
ous  tongues  as  the  tide  of  fashion  has  again  set  towards 
Italy.  In  my  youth  it  was  Italy.  Then  for  a  period 
came  Germany;  then  Italian  and  French,  followed  by 
German,  and  now  Italian.  All  of  which  proves  nothing  or 
everything.  (When  in  doubt  consult  Brother  Kreh- 
biePs  Chapters  in  Operas.)  I  do  not  always  follow  my 
own  advice  and  occasionally  come  to  grief,  for  I  am  not  a 
date-monger.  The  impresarios  in  my  early  days  were 
Max  Maretzek,  the  Strakosch  brothers,  Maurice  and  Max 
— one  of  them  married  Amalia  Patti,  but  don't  ask  me 
which — Maurice  was  an  accompanist  of  merit.  I  heard 
him  at  the  keyboard  supporting  the  rich  voice  of  Parepa- 
Rosa.  Elsewhere  (in  Unicorns)  I  have  spoken  of 
Vieuxtemps,  fat  Brignoli,  Rubinstein  and  Wieniawski. 
Opera  has  been  going  to  the  "demnition  bow-wows" 
since  Noah  criticised  the  tone-production  of  the  first 
soiled  dove  in  the  ark.  And  from  Mount  Ararat  to  Broad 
way  there  has  been  one  prolonged  wail  of  protest  against 
"prevailing  methods"  in  contemporary  opera;  in  a  phrase, 
from  Genesis  to  Giulio  Gatti-Casazza.  My  father,  a  half 
century  ago,  informed  me  that  opera  was  heading  for 
the  dogs;  that  Brignoli — who  sang  like  an  angel  and  looked 
like  a  macaroni  baker — was  nothing  compared  to — who 


32  STEEPLEJACK 


was  it?  Some  by-gone  operatic  Johnnie.  Oh,  yes, 
Mario.  I  never  saw  a  better  actor-tenor  than  Cam- 
panini,  though  I've  seen  as  good  acting  by  voiceless 
tenors.  (No  names,  please  !) 

But  opera  was  a  mixed  affair  then.  It  still  bore  the 
circus  stamp  of  the  seventies.  Before  he  could  play  in 
symphony  in  one  evening's  programme,  Theodore 
Thomas  was  forced  to  placate  his  audiences  with  dance 
tunes,  single  movements  from  Haydn,  Mozart,  and 
Beethoven,  or  arrangements  of  piano  pieces,  such  as 
Schumann's  "Traumerei."  In  opera  the  cheap  spec 
tacular  ruled.  Singers  were  advertised  like  freaks,  and 
managers  always  a  half  step  from  ruin.  That  manager 
is  become  an  extinct  type.  Only  the  pen  of  Charles 
Dickens  could  have  characterised  the  late  Henry  Maple- 
son,  the  Colonel,  as  he  was  affectionately  named.  Com 
pared  with  him  the  florid  personality  of  Sir  "Gus"  Harris 
was  a  silhouette.  A  perfect  flowering  was  Colonel  Maple- 
son,  bluff  or  tactful,  roaring  or  ingratiating,  as  occasion 
demanded.  He  was  the  most  successful  lion-tamer — 
vocal  lions — I  ever  encountered.  He  could  make  a 
blank  cheque  sing  with  potential  wealth.  A  prima 
donna,  rage  in  her  heart  and  a  horse-whip  under  her  coat, 
has  been  seen  to  leave  him  placated,  hopeful,  even  smiling. 
The  particular  artistic  ointment  used  by  the  Colonel  as 
a  cure-all  for  irritated  "artistic"  vanity  was  antique 
flattery.  If  promises  were  rejected  he  applied,  and  with 
astonishing  results,  the  unguent  of  fat  praise;  he  literally 
smeared  his  singers.  Then,  conscious  that  another  night 
had  been  saved,  that  Signorina  Pugnetto  or  Signor  Niente 
were  conquered,  the  Colonel  would  exclaim  in  that  pro 
digious  voice  of  his:  "My  boy!  I  say!  What  about  a 
cold  bottle?"  (His  nephew,  Lionel  Mapleson,  is  libra- 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  33 

rian  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  a  post  he  has 
held  for  over  thirty  years.)  The  truth  is  that  clumsy 
methods  were  to  blame  in  those  antediluvian  days. 
Opera  from  the  financial  view-point  was  as  much  a  fly- 
by-night  affair  as  the  veriest  theatrical  barnstormer 
before  the  perfecting  of  the  managerial  machine  by  Froh- 
man  and  Hayman.  Now,  wThen  opera  production  is 
safely  standardised  we  are  confronted  by  the  undeniable 
fact  that  the  grand  manner  in  singing  has  vanished,  and. 
that  few  plays  are  worth  the  paper  on  which  they  are 
typewritten. 

Nor  is  this  a  dyspeptic  opinion.  So  true  is  it  that 
managerial  foresight,  abetted  by  shrewd  composers,  dis 
counted  long  ago  the  possibility.  It  is  an  age  of  medi 
ocrity  the  world  over.  As  first-class  singers  are  rare,  the 
operatic  mills  grind  out  something  that  demands  neither 
superlative  vocal  art  nor  superior  acting;  just  that  flying- 
fish  known  as  a  singing-actress,  or  singing-actor.  For 
one  Olive  Fremstad,  one  Matzenauer,  we  are  given  a 
flock  of  young  men  and  women  who  neither  act  nor  sing 
convincingly.  Instead  of  the  glorious  voices  we  heard 
at  the  Academy  or  Metropolitan  Opera,  we  are  offered 
more  placid  entertainment;  a  better  ensemble,  better 
stage  productions,  the  splendor  and  variety  of  the  scene- 
painter's  art;  and  at  least  some  compensation — a  larger, 
more  balanced  orchestra,  and  greater  conductors.  There 
were  no  Seidls,  no  Toscaninis  in  the  long  ago.  Signor 
Arditi,  bald,  rotund,  self-complaisant,  waved  his  white 
gloved  hand  and  Adelina  Patti  sang  the  wooing  measures 
of  his  "II  Bacio."  As  for  the  stage  management  it  was 
the  abomination  of  desolation.  Because  a  gauze  curtain 
misses  at  the  opera  now,  there  are  columns  of  protest 
in  the  newspapers.  What  would  our  captious  young 


34  STEEPLEJACK 

scribes  have  written  during  the  mighty  regime  when 
SeidI  conducted,  and  Lilli  Lehmann,  Marianne  Brandt, 
Niemann,  Fischer,  Robinson,  and  Alvary  were  in  the 
company;  when  the  singing  was  interrupted  by  refrac 
tory  scenery;  when  the  Rheingold  was  like  a  natatorium 
of  frogs'  legs;  when  that  great  artist  and  instinctive 
housewife,  Brandt,  stooped  to  pick  up  the  potion  vial  as 
she  sang  Brangaene — it  had  rolled  under  the  couch  of 
the  Irish  Princess — and  with  Isolde  and  Tristan  writhing 
in  ecstasy  hard  by?  Yet  the  stage  manager,  Theodore 
Hablemann  made  an  envious  reputation.  The  truth  is 
that  grand  opera  is  like  a  table-d'hote  dinner.  The  pub 
lic  expects  each  course  to  be  a  miracle,  but  ends  by  accept 
ing  the  good,  bad,  and  indifferent.  It's  a  cheap  meal  at 
any  price,  with  music  thrown  in.  Vogue  la  galere ! 

I  am  not  particularly  interested  in  the  evolution  of  the 
operatic  machine,  but  I  do  remember  the  golden  days — 
they  were  usually  leaden  ones  for  the  singers  and  man 
agers.  Both  the  Pattis  I  heard,  lima  di  Murska,  called  by 
her  manager  the  Hungarian  Nightingale;  Parepa-Rosa, 
Brignoli,  Campanini.  What  Carmen  performances  were 
given:  Minnie  Hauk,  Del  Puente,  Campanini  and  Clara 
Louise  Kellogg-Strakosch,  Anna  Louise  Gary-Raymond, 
Galassi,  starry- voiced  Christine  Nilsson — it  would  need  li 
braries  to  house  stories  of  those  artists.  Adelina  Patti 
when  I  last  heard  her  in  Albert  Hall,  London,  was  a  young 
ish  old  lady  with  a  blonde  wig,  her  voice  with  an  occasional 
strand  of  gold  in  it,  and  it  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
organs  since  Catalani  (why  drag  in  Catty?  Because  she 
is  always  mentioned  by  some  critical  Struldbrug  in  con 
nection  with  Aunt  Adelina;  like  Dean  Swift's  horrid  old 
man  of  Laputa,  music-critics  never  die;  they  dry  up  and 
blow  away.)  Brignoli  ate  too  much  and  died.  lima  di 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  35 

Murska  married  too  much  and  died;  and  to  my  surprise 
her  manager,  Signor  de  Vivo  died.  But  his  ghost  keeps 
company  with  the  spirit  of  SeidI  in  the  lobbies  of  the 
Opera.  De  Vivo  was  a  character.  He  had  a  memory 
that  stretched  back  to  Gluck,  or  to  the  early  Florentine 
opera  reformers.  He  could  relate  the  most  moving  tales 
of  managerial  mishaps.  We  christened  him  the  Ancient 
Mariner.  He  was  a  kindly  soul,  and  for  young  reporters 
of  music  a  treasure-trove.  At  that  time  our  night  school 
was  held  on  the  Thirty-ninth  Street  side  of  the  Opera 
House.  The  critical  chain-gang  were  not  so  comfortably 
situated  as  now.  Maurice  Grau  had  recognised  that 
music-critics  are  almost  human  and  his  press-room  be 
came  an  institution,  instead  of  a  bleak  barn;  I  say  bleak 
because  in  the  old  days  critical  comment  was  mostly 
written  in  noisy  cafes.  With  the  advent  of  the  press 
room  and  messenger  service,  criticism  was  put  on  a  rea 
sonable  basis. 

The  picturesque  character  of  the  old-time  operatic 
manager  was  missing  in  the  firm  of  Abbey,  Schoeffel  & 
Grau.  Those  business  men  were  devoid  of  the  free 
booter  spirit.  Maurice  Grau  had  experimented  with 
French  opera  of  the  lighter  variety.  He  had  served  his 
apprenticeship  under  the  watchful  eye  of  his  uncle,  Jacob 
Grau.  With  Henry  E.  Abbey  I  seldom  came  in  contact. 
He  was  not  musical,  though  a  managerial  Czar.  I  be 
lieve  he  admired  Lillian  Russell  more  than  any  of  his 
imported  prima  donnas,  with  the  exception  of  Nellie 
Melba.  Mr.  Krehbiel  has  told  us  of  Abbey's  belief  that 
Melba  would  outshine  Calve;  but  Maurice  Grau  knew 
better.  Maurice,  I  found  charming,  companionable,  and 
willing  to  judge  a  case  fairly.  We  met  in  the  old  Hotel 


36  STEEPLEJACK 

St.  James,  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Twenty-seventh 
Street,  in  company  with  the  Dorvals,  Joly,  Steinberg,  and 
Julian  Story.  Now  all  dead  except  the  two  Dorvals,  who 
manage  the  park  Casino.  Walter  Damrosch  with  Charles 
A.  Ellis  gave  a  season  of  German  opera  which  proved  its 
recrudescence.  Like  his  father,  Leopold  Damrosch,  he 
brought  back  Wagner  to  a  city  sick  with  musical  frivolities 
and  futilities  (as  Sir  Thomas  Beecham  is  doing  now  at 
Drury  Lane,  London).  He  also  permitted  us  to  hear  Ma- 
terna,  Klafsky — who  looked  like  a  cook  but  sang  like  one 
of  the  choirs  of  Cherubim — and  Gadski.  Materna,  Winck- 
lemann  and  Scaria  we  had  heard  and  seen — they  were 
palpable,  physically  speaking — in  concert  at  the  beginning 
of  the  eighties.  Shrewd  as  they  were,  Abbey,  Schoeffel 
&  Grau  were  more  than  once  confronted  by  bankruptcy. 
No  wonder.  What  company  before  or  after  could  boast 
such  a  lyric  firmament?  Think  of  the  names — a  "gal 
axy,"  a  "constellation,"  as  the  "passionate  press-agent" 
— Philip  Hale's  phrase — wrote  in  those  "halcyon"  days. 
Imperious  Lilli  Lehmann,  who  had  come  over  from  the 
Stanton  forces  for  a  period;  the  greatest  dramatic  so 
prano,  in  Italian  as  well  as  German  roles,  of  them  all; 
Jean  and  Edouard  de  Reszke,  Scalchi — she  had  four  dis 
tinct  tone-productions — Melba,  beautiful  Emma  Eames, 
Nordica,  Calve,  Victor  Maurel,  Plangon,  Lassalle  and  in 
one  season !  My  brain  positively  goes  giddy  at  the  sight 
of  "Les  Huguenots"  all  stars  programme.  Luigi  Manci- 
nelli,  among  other  conductors,  held  his  own. 

The  consulship  of  Heinrich  Conried  was  not  during 
rny  critical  bailiwick.  He  will  go  down  in  musical  his 
tory  as  the  man  who  defied  the  fulminations  of  Baireuth 
and  produced  "Parsifal"  for  the  first  time  outside  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  Thuringian  Graal.  His  "Salome" 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  37 

production,  with  Alfred  Hertz  conducting — and  he  is  a 
sympathetic  conductor  of  Richard  Strauss — would  have 
been  a  musical  event  of  importance  had  it  not  been  for 
the  notoriety  of  the  affair.  Our  music-critics,  all  sober, 
God-fearing  men,  with  imaginations  devoid  of  the  mor 
bid  or  salacious,  were  thrown  into  a  tumult  by  Philip 
Hale,  who  called  their  attention  to  the  fact  that  Salome 
was  a  degenerate,  suffering  from  a  rare  and  "beautiful 
case" — as  the  diagnosticians  say — of  necrophilia.  No 
one  ever  heard  of  the  disease  except  madhouse  doctors 
or  readers  of  Krafft-Ebing  and  the  poetry  of  Maurice 
RoIIinat.  The  conjunction  of  Oscar  Wilde's  name  com 
pleted  the  havoc.  A  scandal  ensued.  Unhappy  Olive 
Fremstad  never  sang  so  overwhelmingly  as  at  that  Sun 
day  morning's  full-dress  rehearsal.  Her  apostrophe  to 
the  papier-mache  head  of  John  the  Baptist,  on  a  "prop 
erty  "  charger,  set  moralists  gloating.  Here  was  a  chance 
to  get  back  at  haughty  Richard  Strauss,  who  had  dared 
to  flout  local  criticism.  The  opera  was  withdrawn. 
Anne  Morgan,  the  daughter  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  was 
shouldered  with  the  responsibility,  although  she  has  fre 
quently  disavowed  the  soft  impeachment,  always  going 
to  hear  "Salome"  when  Oscar  Hammerstein  revived  it 
with  wonderful  Mary  Garden  as  the  sweet-scented  hero 
ine.  Philip  Hale  must  have  smiled  more  than  once  at 
the  effect  on  our  unsophisticated  souls  of  his  verbal  fire 
brand.  There  is  no  more  "degeneracy"  in  the  magnifi 
cent  outburst  of  savage  exultation  and  poignant  passion 
of  Salome  over  the  head  of  the  Baptist  than  in  Isolde's 
loving  lament  over  Tristan — his,  too,  is  a  dead  skull. 
The  real  neurotic  in  the  sloppy  little  play — a  parody  of 
Flaubert's  "Herodiade" — is  the  King.  Since  then  Sa- 
Jome  has  become  a  commonplace.  But  that  last  song 


38  STEEPLEJACK 

is  the  most  intense  in  all  musical  literature.  When  he 
wrote  it — not  without  the  aid  of  Richard  Wagner — 
Strauss  was  a  genius. 

I  came  to  New  York  in  1886  and  found  the  American 
Opera  Company  in  full  swing,  with  Jeannette  M.  Thurber 
on  the  managerial  side-saddle  and  Theodore  Thomas 
at  the  musical  helm.  And  that  is  history,  a  history 
full  of  heart-burnings,  bankers,  Charles  E.  Locke,  and 
other  "bobos"  inseparable  from  operatic  infancy.  That 
Theodore  Thomas,  by  all  odds  the  most  satisfying  con 
ductor  of  symphony  that  America  then  had,  and  our 
supreme  educational  force,  was  at  his  happiest  in  opera 
I  can't  say.  Like  Toscanini,  he  was  a  martinet  with  his 
forces,  but  unlike  the  great  Italian  conductor,  he  was  too 
rigid  in  his  beat  for  the  singers.  My  darling  recollection 
of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  is  that  of  the  first 
"  Tristan  and  Isolde."  I  pawned  my  winter  overcoat  to 
buy  a  seat  in  the  top  gallery — it  was  the  first  seat,  first 
row,  to  the  right.  But  it  was  worth  a  hundred  coats  to 
hear  Lehmann,  with  SeidI  conducting.  When  I  told 
Maurice  Egan,  our  Ambassador  to  Denmark  for  many 
years,  then  an  editor,  always  a  poet,  of  the  episode,  he 
was  in  despair,  saying  that  people  don't  do  such  things 
even  for  art's  sake.  At  his  home  I  met  Henry  George, 
and  played  for  him  a  "Single  Tax  March"  on  the  theme 
of  his  then  celebrated  book  (with  the  assistance  of  Chopin; 
it  was  a  funeral  march) .  Earlier  at  the  opera  I  had  heard 
Patti  in  "Carmen" — not  any  worse  than  Lehmann's  gyp 
sy — and  Signer  Perugini,  Johnny  Chatterton  in  private  life, 
as  Alfredo  in"Traviata,"  his  solitary  appearance,  I  believe. 
With  the  advent  of  German  opera  the  now  familiar  head 
of  Victor  Herbert  popped  up  among  the  violoncelli  in  the 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  39 

orchestra;  he  was  then  the  husband  of  Theresa  Herbert- 
Foerster,  a  handsome  Viennese  woman,  who  sang  with  a 
sumptuous  voice  in  Goldmark's  "  Queen  of  Sheba." 
Marcella  Sembrich  I  had  first  heard  in  Paris  and  after 
wards  in  Philadelphia  about  1884.  She  belongs  to  the 
great  and  almost  vanished  generation  of  vocal  goddesses. 
Milka  Ternina,  an  Isolde  and  Brunhilde  without  parallel, 
has  left  the  lyric  stage.  Calve  still  sings.  I  heard  her 
in  vaudeville.  I  swear  that  my  eyes  were  wet.  There 
were  holes  in  her  voice,  but  the  "magnetism"  as  of  old. 
What  a  night  was  that  first  Carmen  of  hers  !  She  chucked 
tradition  to  the  winds,  also  her  lingerie.  Some  of  the 
elder  critics  are  still  blushing.  I  recall  a  certain  hot 
morning  in  August,  1892,  when  I  was  hurriedly  sum 
moned  by  Manager  Edmund  C.  Stanton  to  the  Metro 
politan — rather  to  an  eruption  of  fire,  for  the  stage  and 
the  rear  of  the  house  were  burning.  Otto  Weil,  now 
with  the  present  management,  stood  with  Rudolph  and 
Albert  Aronson  on  the  roof  of  the  Casino  and  watched 
the  flare-up.  I  was  luckier.  After  the  worst  had  passed 
I  stood  in  a  parterre-box  with  Mr.  Stanton  and  looked 
at  the  blazing  pit  which  had  been  the  stage.  Tongues  of 
flame,  yellowish-red,  still  licked  the  edges  of  the  prosce 
nium,  and  I  expected  to  hear  the  magic  fire-music  of  the 
Valkyries.  Wo  tan  was  fire  chief,  but  Loki  had  fairly 
vanquished  him.  Where  the  Knickerbocker  Theatre 
now  is  was  Luehr's  Cafe,  and  with  a  few  of  the  house- 
staff,  Thomas  Bull  among  the  rest,  we  discussed  the  de 
pressing  outlook  for  the  forthcoming  operatic  season. 
There  was  none;  1892-1893  was  a  closed  season,  not  the 
first  that  had  gone  up  in  smoke.  The  Luehr's  hostelry 
saw  many  musical  faces  during  the  Stanton  regime. 


40  STEEPLEJACK 


Report  hath  it  that  Isolde  Lehmann  "rushed  the  growler" 
from  the  hotel  across  the  street;  I  think  she  was  then  the 
wife  of  the  tenor,  Paul  Kalisch. 

I  was  Mr.  Stanton's  private  secretary  at  the  National 
Conservatory  of  Music,  where  he  was  Mrs.  Thurber's 
Secretary  (I  spelled  my  job  with  a  small  "s")  and  as  two 
hired  men  we  hit  it  off  capitally.  He  was  first  and  last 
the  typical  clubman.  Tall,  distinguished  in  bearing,  he 
never  lost  his  equilibrium  even  when  verbally  assaulted 
by  irate  lyrical  ladies.  Once,  at  a  rehearsal,  after 
Lehmann  had  protested  in  an  eloquent  manner  about 
the  dusty  stage,  and  said  that  it  was  like  a  latrine,  he 
calmly  replied  in  his  homespun  German:  "Frau  Leh 
mann,  Sie  sind  nicht  sehr  lady-like."  This  drove  her 
to  fury  and  her  retort  froze  my  blood.  It  was  both  an 
invitation  and  a  menace.  Stanton  never  winced.  Sa 
luting  the  prima  donna,  he  left  the  auditorium.  Even 
the  imperturbable  SeidI  smiled.  But  Stanton  was  not 
the  man  to  lead  a  forlorn  operatic  hope.  If  Abbey, 
Schoeffel  &  Grau  couldn't,  who  could?  Certainly  not 
Conried.  Gatti-Casazza  seems  to  have  solved  the  prob 
lem.  But  he  has  subventions  and  Caruso.  He  also  had 
Arturo  Toscanini,  who,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  in  Italy. 
He  belongs  to  the  Brahmin  conductors;  to  the  company 
of  Richter,  Levi,  SeidI,  MottI,  Mahler.  A  more  poeti 
cally  intense  "Tristan"  than  his  reading  with  the  lovely 
Olive  Fremstad  as  the  impassioned  Isolde,  I  have  seldom 
heard.  Toscanini  is  a  superman.  In  that  frail  frame  of 
his  there  is  enough  dynamic  energy  with  which  to  cap 
ture  Gehenna.  He  is  all  spirit.  He  does  not  always 
achieve  the  ultimate  heights  as  did  SeidI,  as  does  Arthur 
Nikisch.  While  his  interpretation  of  " Tristan"  is  a 
wonderfully  worked-out  musical  picture,  yet  the  elemen- 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  41 

tal  ground-swell,  which  Anton  SeidI  summoned  from  the 
vasty  deep,  is  missing.  But  what  ravishing  tone-colours 
Toscanini  mixed  on  his  orchestral  palette ! 

I  saw  much  of  SeidI.  His  profile  was  sculptural.  So 
was  his  manner.  But  a  volcano  beneath.  He  was  a 
taciturn  man.  He  smoked  to  distraction.  I've  often 
seen  him  with  Antonin  Dvorak,  the  Bohemian  composer, 
at  the  old  Vienna  Bakery  Cafe,  next  to  Grace  Church. 
There  the  coffee  and  pastry  were  the  best  in  town.  The 
conductor  and  composer  would  sit  for  hours  without 
speaking.  It  was  SeidI  who  introduced  the  New  World 
Symphony  by  Dvorak.  Nahan  Franko  told  me  that 
SeidFs  hair  was  originally  red  till  he  dyed  it;  and  Fred 
Schwab  asserted  that  he  was  a  Jew.  I  only  know  that 
SeidFs  hair  was  iron-grey,  and  that  he  had  studied  for 
the  priesthood  at  Budapest.  His  expression  was  emi 
nently  ecclesiastical.  He  never  seemed  a  happy  man  to 
me.  His  wife  in  the  eighties  was  pretty  and  fresh-col 
oured,  a  Teutonic  blonde,  also  an  admirable  singer.  As 
Seidl-Krauss  she  was  a  member  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  and  I  recall  her  Eva  in  "The  Master- 
singers"  with  pleasure.  It  was  rumoured  that  the  great 
Hungarian  conductor  had  been  in  love  with  an  equally 
celebrated  Wagnerian  singer  in  the  Neumann  company 
years  before.  His  Gothic  head  I've  seen  in  mediaeval 
tryptichs,  as  a  donator  at  Bruges  or  Ghent  or  else  among 
the  portraits  of  Holbein.  His  shell  was  difficult  to  pierce, 
but  once  penetrated  his  friends  found  a  very  warm-hearted 
human. 

Of  Rafael  Joseffy  I  can  only  say  this:  I  loved  the  man 
as  well  as  the  artist.  He  was  that  rara  avis,  a  fair- 
minded  musician.  He  never  abused  a  rival,  but  for  pre- 


42  STEEPLEJACK 

sumptuous  mediocrity  he  had  a  special  set  of  needles 
steeped  in  ironic  acid.  Pst !  A  phrase  and  the  victim 
collapsed,  the  wind  escaping  from  his  pretensions  like  a 
pricked  toy-balloon.  His  touch,  his  manner  of  attack  on 
the  keyboard  spiritualised  its  wiry  timbre;  the  harsh, 
inelastic,  unmalleable  metallic  tone,  inseparable  from  the 
music  made  by  conventional  pianists,  became  under  his 
magic  fingers  floating,  transparent,  evanescent.  His 
plastic  passage-work — so  different  from  Liszt's  wrought- 
iron  figuration,  or  the  sonorous  golden  blasts  of  Rubin 
stein — his  atmospheric  pedalling  and  gossamer  arabesques 
— you  ask  in  desperation  if  Joseffy  played  the  piano,  what 
instrument  then  did  his  contemporaries  play?  With  a 
few  exceptions  he  made  the  others  seem  a  trifle  obvious. 
De  Pachmann,  Godowsky,  Paderewski  were  his  favourite 
artists.  To  him  alone  may  they  be  compared.  Chopin's 
style  must  have  been,  according  to  reports,  like  the 
pianissimist  Vladimir  de  Pachmann's.  That  Russian  was 
extraordinary,  though  his  playing  never  had  the  intellect 
nor  the  brilliancy  of  Joseffy's.  Ah !  the  beauty  of  Jo- 
seffy's  hands,  with  their  beautiful  weaving  motions,  those 
curved  birdlike  flights  symbolic  of  the  music.  One  night 
at  Liichow's,  sitting  with  Ed  Ziegler,  August — Himself — 
Joseffy  and  De  Pachmann,  an  argument  was  started.  De 
Pachmann,  who  had  been  especially  irritable,  turned  vi 
cious  and  spitting  out  his  rage — he  was  a  feline  person — he 
called  Joseffy  an  unprintable  name.  Before  Joseffy  could 
answer  the  villainous  attack,  I,  with  a  recklessness  un 
usual  for  me,  let  the  Chopinzee  have  the  contents  of  my 
glass  full  in  the  face.  If  I  had  been  sitting  closer  I  would 
have  slapped  his  mouth;  as  it  was,  the  wetting  might 
cleanse  it.  Sputtering,  he  was  led  away  by  a  waiter  and 
presently  returned,  smiling  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Joseffy  was  disgusted  with  me,  as  well  he  might  be.  It 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  43 

was  unpardonable,  my  conduct,  and  I  promptly  apolo 
gised.  Then  De  Pachmann  explained  it  was  jealousy,  as  I 
had  mentioned  Joseffy's  name  seven  times  more — he  gave 
the  exact  figure — than  his  in  my  Chopin  book.  It  sounded 
childish  but  it  dissolved  the  disagreeable  business  into 
laughter.  After  all  had  gone  away  except  Ziegler,  Jo- 
sefFy  turned  to  me  and  severely  reproached  me  but  ended 
his  sermon  thus:  "And  you,  of  all  men,  wasted  such  a 
lot  of  good  beer!"  I  can  recall  the  diabolic  twinkle  in 
his  eye  yet. 

I  always  had  a  strong  affection  for  the  Poles  and 
Poland.  I  fancy  it  was  the  Celtic  streak  in  me  which 
spells  romantic.  If  Poland  and  Ireland  and  women 
were  "free"  what  a  dull  world  this  would  be  (excuse  the 
metre),  although  you  may  well  ask — free  for  what?  Jane 
Porter's  sentimental  hero,  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  was  my 
first  introduction  to  the  Sarmatian  theme,  Chopin  my 
next,  and  Joseph  Conrad  is  the  latest  incarnation,  though 
he  seems  less  Polish  than  his  compatriots  because  his 
fiction  deals  with  exotic  countries;  yet  rightfully  under 
stood  he  is  au  fond,  as  Polish  as  Mickiewiez  or  Pader- 
ewski.  For  a  decade  and  more  three  Polish  singers, 
Marcella  Sembrich,  the  De  Reszkes,  a  Polish  actress, 
Modjeska,  and  a  Polish  piano  virtuoso,  Jan  Ignace  Pad- 
erewski,  ruled  here  in  their  respective  spheres.  When 
Jean  de  Reszke  left  us  his  admirers  believed  he  would 
never  be  replaced;  nor  has  he  been.  There  is  but  one 
Jean.  Not  being  born  with  a  tenor  voice  he,  "midway 
in  his  mortal  life,"  made  himself  one.  He  thought  tenor 
as  an  indispensable  proceeding  in  transforming  his  bary 
tone  into  tenor.  It  was  not  merely  an  affair  of  altitudi- 
nous  tones,  but  of  timbre.  To  be  an  emerald  the  jewel 
must  first  think  itself  one.  This  is  not  Transcendental 
Mysticism — pardon  the  seeming  tautology — but  a  trait 


44  STEEPLEJACK 

well  understood  in  biology,  for,  while  a  man  cannot  add 
one  cubit  to  his  stature,  the  giraffe  elongated  its  neck  to 
get  its  daily  nourishment,  and  with  the  will-power  and 
genius  of  a  Jean  de  Reszke,  a  barytone  might  presumably 
become  a  tenor.  There  was,  naturally,  material  to  work 
upon.  Jean  had  vocal  wealth  in  his  throat,  though  not  a 
multi-millionaire  like  Enrico  Caruso,  and  he  had  vocal 
brains,  an  artistic  intellect.  He,  born  a  barytone  with  a 
high  range,  will  be  remembered  in  operatic  history  as  the 
most  fascinating  tenor  in  French  or  German  opera.  As 
voice,  and  little  else,  is  demanded  in  the  old-fashioned 
Italian  repertory,  he  did  not  shine  with  the  same  lustre, 
but  as  Faust  or  Tristan,  Romeo  or  Siegfried,  Raoul,  Jean 
of  Leyden,  Don  Jose,  Romeo,  Lohengrin,  who  has  left 
in  the  memories  of  his  auditors  such  lovable  images? 
The  nobility  of  his  attitude  towards  art,  his  dramatic 
assumption  of  the  various  roles,  his  personal  pulchritude, 
these  were  important  factors,  but  beyond  all  these  was 
the  enigmatic,  the  magnetic  fluid  that  envelops  certain 
men  and  women,  an  aura — one  word  is  as  useless  as 
another  in  explaining  this — and  also  enveloping  the  audi 
torium.  Jean  de  Reszke  possessed  the  nameless  quality 
in  such  abundance  that  he  had  only  to  appear  and — there 
was  light!  His  entrance  in  "Lohengrin,"  the  arrested 
attitude — and  without  opening  his  mouth  he  became  the 
Swan  Knight  in  our  imagination.  There  is  the  word; 
Jean  was  the  most  imaginative  operatic  singer  of  our 
times,  poetically,  tenderly,  exquisitely  imaginative.  This 
supersubtle  Pole  employed  the  entire  battery  of  his  forces; 
he  was  not  one  of  those  distressing  tenors  who  tickle  the 
ear  of  the  groundlings.  He  invested  a  character  with 
all  its  attributes.  Oh,  yes !  he  could  take  a  high  C,  he 
often  did  in  "Faust"  and  "Siegfried,"  but  such  tricks 
did  not  appeal  to  him.  Once,  at  the  Albemarle  Hotel,  I 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  45 

heard  him  sing  in  the  trio  from  "William  Tell"  with  his 
brother,  Edouard,  and  Jean  Lassalle.  Jean  sang  a  high 
C  sharp  from  the  chest  without  straining.  I  tell  you, 
he  "thought"  C  sharp,  for  singing,  of  all  musical  achieve 
ments,  is  primarily  thought.  He  was  one  of  the  rare 
tenors  who  was  both  virile  and  musical. 

Does  Wagner  write  "vocally"?  That  question  be 
came  superfluous  after  hearing  the  De  Reszkes,  Leh- 
mann,  Ternina,  Fremstad,  Fischer,  Nordica,  Eames,  and 
Plangon.  Wagner  would  have  died  of  enthusiasm  if  he 
could  have  heard  his  essentially  melodic  line  brought  into 
high  relief  by  these  artists.  The  ancient  Baireuth  vocal 
tradition  did  not  quite  satisfy  the  composer,  mighty  as 
were  its  effects.  Niemann,  almost  voiceless,  was  an  in 
comparable  Siegmund  and  Tristan;  in  Meyerbeer,  despite 
his  histrionic  genius,  he  could  not  gloss  over  his  vocal 
deficiencies.  And  there  was  a  long  list  of  large  ladies, 
barrel-shaped,  with  iron  lungs  and  a  method  of  acting 
which  consisted  in  waddling  and  brandishing  aloft  their 
pudgy  fists,  only  that  and  nothing  more.  One,  we  re 
member,  I  christened  the  "Foghorn  of  Hoboken," 
because,  if  the  wind  was  propitious,  an  easterly  wind, 
and  all's  well !  you  could  hear  her  in  the  heart  of  Hobo- 
ken.  Her  husband,  too,  had  a  Hoboken  thirst.  The 
last  time  I  saw  the  unfortunate  couple  was  at  Baireuth. 
I  asked  Schumann-Heink  the  news  of  the  husband-bary 
tone.  Madame  Ernestine  never  minces  her  words:  "Last 
night  they  were  fished  out  of  the  gutter,  fighting."  It 
was  true.  The  barytone  once  sang  Hans  Sachs  at  the 
Metropolitan  to  an  obbligato  of  hiccups.  Poor  chap,  he 
went  down  on  a  steamer  off  the  Hook  of  Holland.  He 
was  doomed  to  a  liquid  death.  I  mention  this  particular 
case  not  as  representative  but  as  illustrative  of  certain 
characteristics  in  the  old-fashioned  Wagnerian  school  of 


46  STEEPLEJACK 

singing  and  acting.  These  singers  had  tradition,  under 
standing,  and  musical  ability,  but  they  sang  by  main 
strength,  as  the  Irishman  played  the  fiddle.  Seldom 
was  there  plangency  in  their  tones.  Lilli  Lehmann  had 
first  mastered  Italian  music;  she  had  been  a  coloratura 
soprano,  singing  in  such  roles  as  the  Queen  in  "Hugue 
nots,"  or  Filina  in  "Mignon."  (We  actually  heard — 
and  saw — her  as  Filina.)  So  she  brought  to  Wagner's 
music  vocal  perfections,  though  she  never  altogether 
cured  herself  of  that  glottis-stroke  (coup  de  glotte)  which, 
however,  she  could  at  certain  moments  make  so  dramati 
cally  effective;  her  imploring  accents  when  on  bended 
knees  Brunhilde  asks  her  father,  Wotan,  if  her  disobedi 
ence  is  irrevocably  unforgiven.  This  mannerism  and  a 
certain  hardness  in  style,  are  the  only  defects  I  can  pick 
out  in  the  dazzling  artistic  cuirass  of  her  career.  She  was 
too  stormy  in  the  first  act  of  "Tristan" — oh  !  that  desper 
ate  invocation  after  the  curtain  rises,  when  Wagner  steals 
the  thunder  of  Chopin's  C  minor,  Revolutionary  Etude — 
and  she  was  not  voluptuously  tender  in  Act  II.  But  in 
the  last  scene  Lilli  was  glorious,  precisely  at  the  point 
where  Milka  Ternina,  her  superior  in  the  previous  acts, 
failed  to  reach  the  vocal  summit.  Fremstad's  Isolde  is 
largely  modelled  after  her  teacher's,  but  it  is  more  tender 
and  womanly,  and  in  the  garden  more  poetic  and  lov 
able.  There  was  always  a  little  of  the  remote  goddess 
Brunhilde  in  Lehmann's  impersonation  of  Isolde,  though, 
curious  to  relate,  her  scene  with  Wotan  in  the  third  act 
of  "The  Valkyrs"  was  most  human,  most  moving.  In 
consistencies  are  the  very  web  of  an  artist's  conception. 

Max  Alvary  looked  a  Siegfried,  but  sang  it  in  a  harsh, 
pinched  voice.     That  didn't  hinder  him  from  becoming 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  47 

a  matinee  idol,  like  Caruso  to-day.  There  was  a  tug-of- 
war  between  mobs  of  girls  when  he  left  the  Thirty-ninth 
Street  door  of  the  Opera  House.  The  son  of  an  Achen- 
bach,  one  of  the  Diisseldorf  school  of  glazed  oil-cloth 
painters,  he  was  personally  a  man  of  breeding,  and  hand 
some.  But  he  could  eat  more  at  a  sitting  than  Michael 
Cross,  or  the  huge  basso,  Lablache,  whose  feats  as  a 
trencherman  were  Brobdignagian;  yet  Alvary  kept  his 
figure,  though  I  don't  doubt  that  his  appetite  caused  the 
stomach  cancer  from  which  he  died.  Among  the  men  of 
the  Grau  regime,  Edouard  de  Reszke,  Plangon,  and  Vic 
tor  Maurel  were  pre-eminent.  I  don't  suppose  there  is 
to  be  found  in  musical  annals  a  versatility  in  aptitudes 
as  that  displayed  by  the  French  barytone,  Victor  Maurel. 
Or  if  this  claim  is  lacking  in  historical  perspective,  then 
I  shall  put  the  question  this  way:  Is  there  an  actor  on 
any  stage  to-day  who  can  portray  both  the  grossness  of 
Falstaff  and  the  subtlety  of  lago?  Making  necessary 
allowance  for  the  different  art  medium  that  the  singing 
actor  must  work  in,  and  despite  the  larger  curves  of  pose 
and  gesture,  Maurel  kept  astonishingly  close  to  the  char 
acters  he  assumed.  His  Falstaff  was  the  most  wonderful 
I  ever  saw;  Billy  Burton  and  the  elder  Hackett  were  not 
in  my  time.  Tree's  Falstaff  was  a  Jack-pudding  in  an 
inflated  life-saver.  I  think  that  Mr.  Wenman's — he 
came  here  with  Irving — Falstaff  and  Sir  Toby  Belch  were 
the  best  assumptions,  for  I  can't  recall  my  old  friend, 
George  Giddens,  in  these  parts,  which  he  must  play 
superlatively  well.  But  Maurel — from  what  school  or 
schools  is  he  the  crystallised  product?  His  voice,  worn 
and  siccant,  nevertheless  could  take  on  any  dramatic 
colouring  desired.  In  Verdi's  "  Falstaffo"  it  was  bullying, 
blandishing,  defiant,  tender  and  gross;  charged  with  an 


48  STEEPLEJACK 

impure  suggestiveness,  and  as  jolly  as  a  boon  compan 
ion's.  When  he  sang  the  scherzo,  "Quand  ero  paggio  del 
duca  di  Norfolk,"  the  lightness  of  touch  brought  back 
boyish  horizons.  And  the  soliloquy — what  eloquence! 

And  this  fat  knight  whose  corpulence  and  lechery  and 
unction  were  conveyed  to  us  not  by  such  obvious  sym 
bols  as  padding  or  leering,  or  belching,  but  were  in  the 
very  larynx  of  Maurel,  would,  without  the  wave  of  an 
enchanter's  wand,  become  overnight  the  sinuous,  lean  and 
treacherous  lago.  The  two  most  satisfying  lagos  I 
remember  were  Henry  Irving's  and  Edwin  Booth's — 
and  the  first  shall  be  last.  Victor  Maurel's  paralleled 
them  at  every  point.  Admitted  that  the  singing  height 
ens  the  impression,  but  in  reality  weakens  the  characteri 
sation,  yet  Maurel's  lago  never  betrayed  a  tendency 
towards  the  melodramatic;  he  held  a  middle  course,  as 
difficult  as  treading  on  eggs  without  crushing  them,  and 
was  both  a  picture  and  a  dramatic  happening.  Malig 
nant  he  was,  that  is  the  "fat"  of  the  part;  but  he  under 
lined  the  reason  for  his  sinister  actions.  lago  is  begin 
ning  to  be  less  the  "spirit  that  denies"  than  a  human 
with  a  sound  motive  for  revenge.  I  know  you  will  re 
mind  me  that  critical  "whitewashing"  is  become  the 
fashion,  that  Nero,  Simon  Magus,  Judas  Iscariot,  Bene 
dict  Arnold  are  only  getting  their  just  dues  at  the  hands 
of  various  apologists.  De  Quincey,  you  remember,  said 
that  without  Judas  the  drama  of  Jesus  crucified  would 
not  have  occurred;  Nero  was  a  much  abused  monster, 
though  Renan  believes  him  to  be  the  Beast  mentioned 
in  the  Apocalypse — it  seems  now  there  were  no  "atroci 
ties"  during  the  fabulous  persecutions  of  the  Jews  and 
Christians;  and  Arnold — well,  he  was  of  British  descent; 
that  may  have  accounted  for  much.  But  in  the  case  of 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  49 

I  ago  there  is  something  to  be  said.  A  pure  devil,  as  we 
conceive  devils  to  be,  he  was  not.  A  rough,  hard- 
drinking  soldier  he  admits  he  is,  and  to  call  his  "put 
money  in  thy  purse"  cynical  is  to  contravene  all  worldly 
wisdom.  No,  Othello  had  wronged  him,  and  he  hated 
him  for  it,  hated  his  wife  for  her  infidelity;  therefore,  his 
revenge  is  credible.  It  is  its  method  that  revolts;  lago 
is  a  Machiavelli  in  action,  and  Desdemona,  perfectly 
innocent,  is  crushed  between  the  upper  and  lower  mill 
stones  of  inexorable  destiny.  This  is  not  meant  to  be  an 
essay  on  the  esoteric  meanings  of  Shakespeare,  but  merely 
the  result  of  studying  MaureFs  conception,  who  painted 
the  portrait  of  Othello's  Ancient  not  all  black,  but  with 
many  gradations  and  nuances.  We  used  to  make  fun, 
Steinberg  and  I,  of  what  was  called  the  "psychological 
crook  of  lago's  left  knee,"  yet  not  a  movement  but  meant 
something.  Maurel  was  economical  in  gesture.  His 
was  true  objective  characterization.  His  Don  Giovanni 
was  another  finely  painted  character.  He  was  the  live, 
courtly,  quick  to  take  offense,  amorous,  intriguing,  brave, 
cruel,  and  superstitious.  His  drinking  song  was  vocal 
virtuosity  in  its  best  estate.  And  there  is  a  catalogue 
of  other  roles,  such  as  De  Nevers,  Amonasro,  which  need 
not  detain  us.  Suffice  to  say  that  Verdi  entrusted  to  him 
the  task  of  originating  such  widely  sundered  roles  as 
lago  and  Falstaff. 

Tall,  handsome,  athletic,  a  boxer  of  skill,  Maurel  in 
private  life  was  not  unlike  his  Don  Juan  of  the  footlights. 
Innumerable  are  the  anecdotes  related  of  his  conquests. 
Women  in  society  deserted  hearth  and  husband  for  him. 
If  there  were  Elviras  there  were  Annas  and  Zerlinas; 
also  Merry  Wives.  Once  these  merry  ladies  plotted  a 
surprise  for  Falstaff  in  St.  Louis.  Letters  brimming  with 


50  STEEPLEJACK 

passionate  protestations  were  sent  to  the  Fat  Knight  and 
fairly  drove  him  to  distraction  as  they  all  made  a  ren 
dezvous  for  the  same  hour,  though  in  different  parts  of 
the  city.  He  drove  from  spot  to  spot,  but  the  merry 
wives  failed  to  keep  their  appointments.  They  saw 
him.  They  were  in  ambush  and  their  laugh  was  longer 
than  at  Herne's  Oak.  But  the  Knight  never  roared, 
nor  betrayed  a  sign  of  defeat.  Perhaps  he  knew.  Had 
Eames,  Scalchi,  Melba,  or  Calve  hatched  the  conspiracy 
against  his  happiness?  I'll  never  tell.  One  thing  I  do 
know — Maurel  interested  women,  even  those  who  de 
claimed  loudest  against  his  philandering.  I  saw  a  pho 
tographic  nude  of  him  posed  as  a  boxer.  It  was  as 
Greek  as  if  the  figure  had  been  modelled  by  some  classical 
sculptor.  A  picturesque  figure  of  a  man.  In  his  best 
years,  Maurel  was  an  inspiring  swell.  On  Fifth  Avenue 
of  a  fine  day  he  was  to  be  seen  with  his  retinue.  He 
swaggered.  He  was  the  Great  Lover  to  the  life.  Sur 
rounded  by  his  secretaries,  his  pugilist,  his  fencing-master, 
his  pianist,  and  a  lot  of  singers  he  was  an  event  on  the 
Avenue.  One  could  have  said  some  fantastic  Italian 
Prince  of  the  Renaissance  who  had  strayed  into  the  nine 
teenth  century.  To-day  at  three  score  and  ten,  he  is 
still  the  Grand  Seigneur,  and  seldom  misses  a  first  night 
at  the  Metropolitan. 

A  friend  of  mine,  a  young  American  painter,  first  saw 
the  object  encircling  the  robust  throat  of  Victor  Maurel 
at  the  opera.  Standing  in  the  auditorium  during  the 
entr'acte,  talking  to  the  French  portraitist,  Theobald 
Chartrain,  the  great  singer  faced  the  audience.  He  wore 
evening  clothes,  did  Maurel,  like  any  other  private 
citizen.  It  was  his  collar  that  riveted  the  glance  of  my 
friend,  the  painter.  Such  a  collar!  Such  a  shape; 


IN  THE  MAELSTROM  51 

archaic,  mediaeval,  exotic,  altogether  fascinating  for  stu 
dents  of  costumes  of  historic  periods.  It  was  a  low 
turnover  collar,  the  points  close,  its  height  inconsiderable; 
indeed,  so  low  that  the  throat  of  the  singer  was  exposed. 
Nearer,  the  observer  noted  that  two  gold  pins  were  care 
lessly  thrust  into  either  side  of  the  linen.  These  pins 
evoked  Byzantine  luxury.  Puzzled  by  the  odd  architec 
ture,  yet  fearful  of  appearing  rude,  the  painter  devoured 
this  collar  with  hungry  eyes.  Then  retreating  to  the 
lobby  he  made  a  pencilled  sketch  from  memory,  upon  his 
cuff.  But  he  questioned  his  memory.  Where  had  he 
seen  just  such  a  cryptic  pattern?  From  what  storehouse 
of  pictures  had  the  barytone  drawn  his  model?  The 
Prado,  the  National  Gallery?  The  Louvre?  And  from 
whom?  There  is  a  Bronzino  there — a  warrior  in  black 
armour  over  the  hauberk  of  which  flows  a  point  lace 
creation.  No,  not  Bronzino.  Botticelli,  Da  Vinci,  Ve 
lasquez?  Aha!  He  had  it.  A  Hyacinthe  Rigaud,  also 
the  simulacrum  of  an  armoured  warrior,  from  whose  neck 
peeps  a  low,  reversed  collar,  with  close  points,  two  jewelled 
stick  pins  speared  through  the  sides.  He  had  his  Maurel 
now.  He,  too,  could  command  his  phoenix  among  col 
lars.  And  he  did.  He  continued  commanding  for  years. 
He  spent  his  inheritance  on  shirt-makers.  He  dissipated 
the  considerable  legacy  of  an  aunt.  He  went  abroad.  He 
became  known  to  London  haberdashers.  In  Paris  he 
was  called  "M.  le  Col."  He  was  the  King  of  Collars. 
But  his  pursuit  of  the  infinite  was  in  vain.  Though  he 
dragged  an  artist,  skilled  in  the  facture  of  collars  before 
the  Rigaud  portrait  at  the  Louvre,  yet  did  he  fail  to  ex 
tort  from  his  plastic  genius  the  desired  perfection.  The 
collar !  The  collar !  Almost  beggared  he  dragged  his 
weary  soul  back  to  New  York.  His  brush  for  want  of 


52  STEEPLEJACK 

practice  had  lost  its  cunning  and  he  was  forced  to  earn 
a  living  by  photography.  One  day  he  saw  M.  Maurel 
on  the  Avenue.  With  a  rapidly  beating  heart  the  painter 
feverishly  stared  at  the  neck  of  the  Frenchman.  He 
fled,  despair  counselling  suicide.  The  singer  was  wear 
ing  a  high-standing  monstrosity,  with  flaring  points. 
No  gold  stick  pins.  A  life  had  been  wasted  in  search  of 
an  impossible  ideal.  The  tragedy  is  all  the  more  poig 
nant  because  the  unhappy  young  fanatic  for  "significant 
form"  did  not  know  that  whenever  Maurel  changed  the 
style  of  his  neck  linen  he  was  traversing  a  new  psychic 
emotional  tempest,  the  symbol  of  which  he  bravely  dis 
played  to  curious  impertinents.  Ah !  the  collar,  the  very 
subtle  collar,  of  M.  Maurel. 


IV 

THE  DE  RESZKES  AND  PADEREWSKI 

Edouard  de  Reszke  was  a  splendid  man,  yet  not  the 
finished  vocal  artist  that  was  Pol  Plancon.  That  French 
man,  despite  his  mincing  gait  and  meticulous  methods, 
could  melt  the  heart  of  a  wooden  Indian;  naturally  he 
was  best  in  French  and  Italian  roles,  though  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  hear  him  deliver  with  faultless  finish  the  music 
of  Wagner.  He,  like  the  De  Reszkes,  was  an  imposing 
figure  on  and  off  the  boards.  But  virility  was  absent, 
though  in  "La  Navarraise,"  that  noisy  little  piece  of 
Massenet  and  in  company  with  Emma  Calve,  he  was  a 
soldier  every  inch  of  him.  And  his  Mephistos,  Gounod's 
and  Boito's,  were  masterpieces  of  characterisation. 
Edouard,  however,  had  dramatic  temperament.  With 
what  sonorous  abandon  he  sang  the  "Veau  d'or"  or  the 
"Piff-Paff."  The  first  night  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  he 
was  the  Friar  Laurence,  Fames,  with  Jean  de  Reszke,  as 
the  lovers.  The  music  is  sentimental  pastry — the  French 
from  Voltaire  to  Gounod  have  never  grasped  Shakespeare 
— but  with  such  singers  even  the  sloppy  music  did  not 
veil  the  poetry  and  pathos  of  the  interpretation.  Jean 
often  sang  the  role  with  Nellie  Melba  as  the  Juliet,  yet, 
for  me,  Fames  seemed  the  ideal  Juliet.  Edouard  was  a 
big,  good-natured  Mephisto,  and  a  satisfying  King  Mark. 
When  the  brothers  lived  at  the  old  Gilsey  House,  I  occa 
sionally  visited  them  and  witnessed  some  performances  of 
Edouard  in  the  eternal  Italian  opera  called  "  Spaghetti." 

53 


54  STEEPLEJACK 


Living  as  they  did  so  many  years  in  Italy  their  favourite 
cuisine  was  the  Italian.  "Why  should  I  fill  up  on  soup?" 
Edouard  would  ask.  "A  dinner  should  begin  with  a 
pasta,"  and  his  always  did.  Eating  nothing  before  they 
sang,  their  midnight  meal  was  a  spectacle  that  would 
have  driven  a  dyspeptic  frantic.  The  spaghetti  was  lit 
erally  wheeled  into  the  room  and  disappeared  like  snow 
under  the  rays  of  a  mellow  sun.  Years  later  at  Warsaw, 
I  met  their  brother,  Victor  de  Reszke,  who  owned  one 
of  the  principal  hotels  in  the  Polish  city.  He  boasted 
a  genuine  tenor  voice,  a  lyric  tenor,  and,  being  a  De 
Reszke,  also  a  musical  temperament.  He  told  me,  inter 
alia,  that  a  singer  should  not  eat  much,  but,  he  added, 
they  always  do.  He  meant  Edouard;  even  Jean  became 
too  stout;  when  he  abandoned  opera  his  voice  was  far 
from  being  worn.  He  could  have  lasted  ten  years — but 
that  spaghetti !  In  Paris,  I  heard  Josephine  de  Reszke, 
his  sister,  at  the  opera.  She  sang  with  consummate 
taste. 

The  advent  of  Paderewski  was  the  most  sensational 
since  Joseffy's  and  Rubinstein's.  He  took  the  town  by 
storm.  His  first  rehearsal  occurred  one  afternoon  in 
1891  at  Carnegie  Hall.  He  was  slender,  orchidaceous, 
and  resembled  the  drawing  by  Edward  Burne-Jones.  He 
was  the  very  flowering  of  the  type  beloved  of  the  Pre- 
raphaelite  painter.  He  played  with  orchestra  the  C 
minor  concerto  of  Saint-Saens'  musically  empty  work, 
but  a  favourite  warhorse  of  Leschetizky  pupils,  why,  I 
can't  say;  the  G  minor  concerto  is  of  more  musical  value. 
I  attended  that  rehearsal,  not  only  because  I  was  curious 
to  hear  the  young  Polish  virtuoso,  but  for  the  reason  that 
I  had  to  write  two  criticisms  of  the  concert,  which  was  to 
take  place  the  evening  of  the  next  day;  one  for  The 


THE  DE   RESZKES  AND   PADEREWSKI     55 

Musical  Courier,  the  other  for  the  New  York  Recorder,  a 
new-born  daily  newspaper,  of  which  I  was  musical  editor. 
Of  course,  I  raved  over  "Paddy"  and  wrote  a  prose- 
poem,  A  Study  in  Old  Gold,  or  some  such  affected 
title.  I  was  suffering  from  "preciousness"  and  a  rush 
rhapsody  to  the  pen.  I  was  earnest,  however,  in  my 
admiration  of  Jan  Ignace,  who  painted  with  a  golden 
romantic  brush,  whose  style  was  poetic,  manly,  musical. 
In  Paris  he  had,  unannounced,  made  a  deep  impression 
with  the  Schumann  concerto.  He  had  "substituted" 
for  his  friend  and  preceptor,  Annette  Essipova,  one  of 
Leschetizky's  wives,  and  a  pianist  of  the  first  rank.  She 
was  indisposed — quite  conveniently — and  the  unknown 
youth  had  his  first  hearing  and  pleased  a  critical  audi 
ence.  His  subsequent  triumphs  are  history.  I  may  add 
that  as  a  man,  artist,  and  patriot,  Premier  Jan  Ignace 
Paderewski  is  altogether  remarkable.  His  general  cul 
ture  is  wide,  his  modesty  most  engaging,  and  he  has  heart 
enough  to  free  Poland,  if  heart  alone  counted.  Not 
witty  in  the  sense  that  Rosenthal  or  Joseffy  were  witty, 
his  is  the  profoundest  nature  of  the  three.  The  "mag 
netism"  which  overflows  the  auditorium  when  he  plays 
is  the  same  in  his  impassioned  appeals  for  the  succour  of 
his  unhappy  land.  He  is  the  reincarnation  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw,  or  the  "Pan  Tadeusz"  of  Mickiewicz.  In 
certain  Chopin  compositions,  I  have  never  heard  his 
peer  notably  in  the  F  minor  concerto;  but  then  he 
plays  all  schools  with  amazing  versatility.  But  Schu 
mann  and  Chopin  are  his  favourites.  I  have  preserved 
a  telegram  he  sent  me  bearing  the  date  February  19, 
1900,  and  from  Memphis,  Tenn.  It  reads:  "Will  you 
kindly  do  me  the  favour  to  act  as  judge  in  prize  competi 
tion  for  American  composers  in  April?  Please  reply  to 


56  STEEPLEJACK 

Vendome  Theatre,  Nashville."  I  accepted,  and  that 
was  the  last  I  heard  of  the  matter,  evidently  he  hadn't 
apprised  the  other  judges — I've  forgotten  who  they  were 
— and  I've  also  forgotten  the  winners  of  the  prize.  I 
fancy  my  connection  with  The  Musical  Courier  did  not 
please  the  members  of  the  jury,  and  I  confess  I  wasn't 
sorry.  Such  competitions  seldom  bring  forth  fruit; 
nevertheless,  I  told  Paderewski,  but  he  only  smiled — in 
Polish.  At  one  period  I  saw  much  of  him,  heard  him 
play  fragments  from  his  unpublished  Polish  Fantasy  for 
piano,  and  he  made  me  the  proposal  for  me  to  edit  a 
projected  musical  journal  in  London.  He  was  to  furnish 
the  capital.  I  refused.  I  was  too  much  enamoured  of 
New  York,  in  1892,  and  its  multitudinous  attractions. 
This  refusal  I  now  regret.  I  asked  Paderewski  about  the 
Burne- Jones  sketch.  He  said  that  when  he  first  visited 
London,  probably  in  1889  or  1890,  he  was  riding  in  a 
'bus  and  facing  him  was  an  elderly  artistic-looking  man, 
who  stared  at  him  in  a  most  embarrassing  fashion.  When 
the  pianist  alighted  the  other  followed  and,  asking  his 
pardon,  gave  him  a  card.  It  was  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones,  then  celebrated,  and  Paderewski  with  his  accus 
tomed  amiability  accepted  the  invitation  of  the  painter 
to  pose  for  him.  It  is  the  one  head  of  his  that  I  like. 
The  flaming  locks,  the  intense  spiritual  life  that  marked 
the  mask  of  the  Pole,  must  have  been  an  inspiration  to 
the  Englishman,  who  has  in  a  large  composition  shown  us 
Vivien  and  Merlin,  and,  for  the  enchanter,  enchanted 
by  the  "woven  paces"  of  the  siren,  he  took  Liszt  as  the 
model.  Paderewski's  head  fascinated  him. 


NORDICA  AND  FREMSTAD 

Nordica  never  impressed  me  as  a  genius,  as  did  Leh- 
mann,  Ternina,  and  Fremstad.  She  had  not  much  emo 
tional  draught.  She  was  not  temperamental  in  their 
sense.  Her  voice,  too,  sweet  as  it  was,  never  thrilled. 
She  was  not  a  Brunhilde  born  nor  could  she  sound  all 
the  notes  of  Isolde's  tragic  octave.  But  she  had  charm, 
and  before  she  entered  the  Felia  Litvinne  class  of  operatic 
heavy-weights,  she  was  pleasant  to  gaze  upon;  towards 
the  end  of  her  career  she  looked  like  a  large,  heavily 
upholstered  couch.  She  was  a  "slow  study"  but  stub 
bornly  industrious,  and  underwent  the  torture  of  one 
thousand  piano  rehearsals  before  she  ventured  to  sing 
Isolde.  At  the  last  one  her  faithful  accompanist  became 
so  enthusiastic  over  her  singing  that  he  expressed  it  in 
unmistakable  masculine  style.  A  furious  chase  ensued 
and  Nordica,  after  dodging  her  adorer,  finally  slipped  out 
of  the  room.  She  told  me  the  story  with  such  realism 
that  I  asked  her  why  she  troubled  herself  about  such  a 
little  thing  as  a  kiss,  and  her  reply  was  truly  feminine: 
"He  had  been  eating  garlic."  And  "he"  was  not  an 
Italian  nor  a  Frenchman.  Of  Olive  Fremstad  I  may 
only  say  that  whatever  critical  reservations  one  may 
make  as  to  her  performance  of  Isolde  or  Brunhilde,  her 
Brangaene  and  Sieglinde  were  the  most  satisfying  to  the 
eye  and  ear  I  ever  experienced.  Her  Brangaene  was  a 
dazzling  young  witch,  and  not  the  plain  maid-of-all-work 

57 


$8  STEEPLEJACK 

we  usually  see  and  hear;  her  Sieglinde  was  a  creature 
compact  of  love  and  pathos  and  vocally  wonderful. 
When  Fremstad  as  a  girl  sang  in  a  Valkyrs  chorus,  led 
by  SeidI  at  a  concert  hall,  Madison  Avenue,  corner 
Fifty-ninth  Street — about  1890 — she  was  very  pretty  and 
her  blonde  hair  an  aureole;  you  recalled  the  exclamation 
of  that  Pope,  who,  on  seeing  some  English  youth,  pris 
oners,  said:  "Non  Angli,  sed  Angeli."  At  Baireuth  the 
American  girl  was  one  of  the  Rhine  Daughters,  this  was 
1896;  and  in  1901,  a  developed  artist,  she  sang  Brangaene 
to  Nordica's  Isolde  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Prince 
Regent's  Opera  House,  and  she  is  my  only  agreeable 
artistic  memory  in  a  performance  that  was  enlivened  by 
the  Isolde,  Nordica,  falling  across  the  Tristan  in  the  garden 
scene,  and  as  both  were  corpulent,  there  was  a  silent 
scramble  watched  with  immense  sympathy  by  a  corpulent 
audience.  Madame  Fremstad's  artistic  career  has  been 
all  her  early  critics  prophesied. 

I  spoke  a  moment  ago  of  Felia  Litvinne.  She  was  the 
sister  of  Edouard  de  Reszke's  wife,  a  Canadian  born,  I 
believe;  and  the  sister  of  Willy  Schutz.  Madame 
Litvinne  was  an  excellent  operatic  soprano.  She  sang 
Isolde  to  Jean  de  Reszke's  Tristan.  She  was  also  blonde, 
and  very  stout.  Edouard  said  that  it  was  mere  turn  of 
the  wrist  for  her  to  eat  a  two-pound  box  of  sweetmeats 
at  a  single  sitting.  He  remonstrated  with  her,  so  did 
her  women  friends,  but  to  no  avail.  Her  brother,  Willy, 
was  indignant  when  he  related  his  struggles  with  her. 
She  always  swallowed  the  chocolates  before  he  could 
grab  them;  she  said  that  he  wanted  them  for  himself. 
It  may  have  been  so.  Willy  was  a  joyous  character. 
He  would  have  made  the  ideal  prima  donna's  husband, 


NORDICA  AND   FREMSTAD  59 

the  kind  that  hunts  the  Metropolitan  lobby  during  en'tr 
actes,  who,  conducting  you  to  a  corner,  whispers:  "Hein ! 
Now  what  you  think !  My  wife  she  knocks  fifty  hells 
out  of  that  stupid  Museria!"  The  stupid  one  is  the 
rival  prima  donna,  of  course.  If  you  cheerfully  acquiesce 
you  are  immediately  piloted  across  the  street  to  the  chop- 
house.  On  account  of  such  husbands  of  prima  donnas 
both  Max  Hirsh  and  William  J.  Guard  acquired  their 
grey  hair.  Willy  Schutz  never  attempted  to  conceal  his 
admiration  and  love  for  Nordica.  He  must  have  pro 
posed  to  her  at  least  twice  a  week.  I  was  in  his  company 
on  the  terrace  of  the  Monferino  Cafe,  Paris,  when  the 
startling  news  reached  us  that  Nordica  had  married  the 
Hungarian,  Zoltan  Doeme — whose  real  name  is  Solomon 
Teitlbaum.  He  sang  Parsifal  at  Baireuth  only  once.  I 
was  present.  So  was  Nordica.  Yet  she  married  him. 
This  marriage  proved  almost  fatal  to  Willy.  He  had 
fetched  from  New  York  the  pet  French  poodle  of  Madame 
Nordica.  It  was  a  fetish  for  Willy.  He  and  the  dog  dis 
appeared  for  a  week,  after  the  news  from  America,  and 
when  next  he  turned  up,  the  pup,  which  had  been  snow 
white,  was  dyed  black,  and  around  its  woolly  neck  it 
wore  a  huge  crepe  bow.  On  its  tail  another  emblem.  It 
was  the  palpable  expression  of  Willy's  sorrow.  The 
cocottes  on  the  terrace  set  up  a  wail  of  commiseration: 
"Oh!  la  belle  Toutou,  he  has  lost  his  maman!"  The 
history  was  pretty  well  canvassed  and  with  the  senti 
mental  sympathy  of  their  class.  That  night  Willy  Schutz 
was  a  hero  who  had  been  jilted  by  a  heartless  coquette. 
He  positively  sobbed  as  he  looked  at  the  canine  in  mourn 
ing;  but  the  dog  didn't  seem  to  mind  it.  Poor  Willy,  he 
was  not  very  strong  above  the  eyes,  but  he  was  tender 
hearted  and  he  meant  well,  but  his  waistcoat  was  so 


60  STEEPLEJACK 

heavily  paved  with  good  intentions  that  he  waddled. 
His  dog,  Nordica's  forsaken  animal,  reminds  me  of  the 
epitaph  I  made  for  a  Mexican  hairless  pup,  one  of  those 
shivering  tiny  brutes  that  yaps  and  snarls  at  every 
stranger.  It  was  prized  by  Adelina  Patti,  who  forced 
her  visitors  to  kiss  its  snout.  When  it  passed  away  dur 
ing  some  ineffable  indigestion  I  wrote  this  for  its  tomb 
stone:  "  Requiesdog  in  Patti."  Henderson,  then  of  The 
Times,  said  my  Latin  was  faulty,  but  you  can't  write 
"requiescat"  when  it's  a  dog,  can  you? 


VI 

OSCAR  HAMMERSTEIN 

Well  I  remember  the  first  day  that  the  late  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  entered  The  Musical  Courier  office  and  intro 
duced  himself.  He  told  Marc  Blumenberg  that  he  was 
worth  a  million  dollars,  made  by  some  patent  cigar-cutting 
machine.  He  was  also  the  editor  of  a  trade-journal  de 
voted  to  the  tobacco  industry.  Blumenberg  looked  at 
me  and  shook  his  head.  "Meshugah!  You  think  I 
am,"  said  the  future  impresario;  "I'll  show  you  I'm  not 
crazy."  He  produced  proofs.  A  millionaire  he  cer 
tainly  was,  and  Marc  became  interested.  Who  wouldn't? 
Oscar  was  dreaming  of  opera  in  English.  The  failures 
of  the  American  opera  had  only  blazed  the  trail  for  him. 
He  saw  that  cheap  prices  and  good  singing  in  our  native 
language  would  solve  the  problem.  There  was  much 
pow-wowing  which  didn't  intrigue  me  as  the  less  I  under 
stand  of  operatic  speech  the  more  I  enjoy  the  music. 
Yet,  as  Harry  B.  Smith  has  truthfully  remarked:  "When 
the  opera  is  a  success  the  composer  gets  the  credit,  when 
a  failure,  the  blame  is  inevitably  saddled  on  the  librettist." 
As  the  librettist  of  "Robin  Hood"  and  a  string  of  De 
Koven  successes,  Mr.  Smith  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about.  W.  S.  Gilbert  was  in  the  same  rocking  boat  with 
Arthur  Sullivan.  Later,  Oscar  Hammerstein  was  to  set 
tle  the  question  by  writing  the  words  and  music  of  his 
opera  "The  Kohinoor."  But  at  first  he  was  rather  timid. 
I  don't  believe  he  took  Blumenberg's  advice,  or  the  advice 

61 


62  bTEEPLEJACK 

of  anyone.  Opera  at  the  Harlem  Opera  House  followed. 
It  was  not  enlivening.  I  recall  the  burning  mountain 
in  Auber's  "  Masaniello — or  the  Dumb  Girl  of  Portici!" 
— and  the  various  burning  thirsts  of  i2^th  Street. 
Naught  else.  But  Oscar  was  not  a  man  easily  discour 
aged.  He  played  the  game  with  energy  and  recklessness. 
Strictly  speaking,  he  was  a  gambler  born.  Organising 
opera  companies,  vaudeville  shows — at  the  old  Victoria, 
for  example — erecting  opera  houses  in  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  and  London,  playing  with  men  and  millions, 
what  were  the  achievements  of  Henry  E.  Abbey  or  Col. 
Jack  Haverly  compared  with  this  shrewd,  ever  witty, 
good-tempered  Hebrew,  who  was  as  prodigal  with  his  own 
money  as  the  others  were  with  the  capital  of  strangers ! 
Hammerstein's  original  operetta  was  as  celebrated  as 
the  Hammerstein  hat.  It  was  the  result  of  a  wager 
made  between  Oscar  and  Gustave  Kerker,  the  composer 
of  "The  Belles  of  New  York,"  "Castles  in  the  Air,"  and 
a  dozen  popular  operettas.  "  Gus,"  an  excellent  musician, 
was  skeptical  concerning  the  ability  of  Hammerstein. 
At  a  table  in  the  cafe  of  the  old  Gilsey  House  sat  Hammer 
stein,  Kerker,  the  late  Charles  Alfred  Byrne — dramatic 
critic  of  The  Journal  and  librettist  of  "Castles  in  the  Air," 
which  employed  the  talents  of  De  Wolf  Hopper,  Tom  Sea- 
brooke,  and  Delia  Fox — Henry  Neagle,  dramatic  editor 
of  The  Recorder,  and  myself.  Oscar,  becoming  excited, 
offered  to  compose  an  opera,  words  and  music,  in  forty- 
eight  hours.  Kerker  took  him  up.  The  thing  became 
serious.  Rooms  were  engaged  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
Gilsey,  an  upright  piano  installed,  and,  cut  off  from  the 
outer  world,  Hammerstein  began  fingering  out  his  tunes, 
writing  words,  putting  them  all  on  paper.  I  forgot  to 
add  that  Gus  Kerker  agreed  to  arrange  the  music  for 


OSCAR  HAMMERSTEIN  63 

orchestra.  We  had  lots  of  fun.  Louis  Harrison  engaged 
a  relay  of  hand-organs  to  play  under  the  composer's 
windows,  but  Oscar  never  winced;  plates  of  sinister  ham 
sandwiches  were  sent  to  his  room  accompanied  by  cock 
tails.  And  the  tray  was  returned  empty  with  many 
thanks.  I've  forgotten  all  the  pranks  we  played  to 
no  purpose.  Complaints  were  made  by  sundry  guests 
at  the  office  that  a  wild  man  was  howling  and  thumping 
the  keyboard;  again  uselessly,  for,  barricaded,  the  stub 
born  composer  refused  to  give  up  the  fort.  Exhausted, 
but  still  smiling,  he  invited  the  jury  on  awards  to  listen 
to  his  music.  It  proved  a  tuneful  hodge-podge,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  and  Kerker  threw  up  the 
sponge.  The  opera  was  actually  produced  at  the  New 
York  Theatre  a  few  months  later,  reinforced  by  extra 
numbers  and  considerably  edited,  and  it  met  with  suc 
cess.  That  first  night  of  "The  Kohinoor"  was  a  notori 
ous  one;  also  side-splitting.  The  audience,  of  the  true 
Tenderloin  variety,  laughed  themselves  blue  in  the  face. 
I  remember  that  the  opening  chorus  consumed  a  third 
of  the  first  act.  Oscar  knew  the  art  of  camouflage  before 
the  word  was  invented.  Two  comic  Jews,  alternately 
for  a  half-hour  sang:  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Morgenstern, 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Isaacstein,"  while  the  orchestra 
shifted  the  harmonies  so  as  to  avoid  too  much  monotony; 
I  fancy  that  was  a  Kerker  device.  Oscar  "composed" 
a  second  operetta,  but  it  never  achieved  the  popularity 
of  the  first. 

During  a  certain  period  the  Hammerstein  hat  was 
without  a  duplicate  except  that  worn  by  William  M. 
Chase,  the  painter.  However,  the  Hammerstein  hat  was 
unique,  not  alone  for  the  grey  matter  it  covered,  but  be 
cause  of  its  atmospheric  quality.  It  was  a  temperamental 


64  STEEPLEJACK 

barometer.  When  the  glass  had  set  fair  the  tilt  of  the 
hat  was  unmistakable.  If  storm-clouds  gathered  on  the 
vocal  horizon  the  hat  felt  the  mood  and  righted  itself  like  a 
buoy  in  agitated  waters.  Its  brim  settled  over  the  eyes 
of  the  impresario.  His  people  scurried  into  anonymous 
corners.  Or  the  hat  was  pushed  off  his  forehead;  unbut 
toned  then  his  soul.  You  could  approach  and  ask  for 
seats.  A  weather  gauge  was  Oscar's  hat.  What  a  brim  ! 
Oh  !  the  breadth  and  flatness  thereof.  How  glossy  its  nap, 
in  height,  how  amiable.  To  have  described  Hammerstein 
without  his  hat  would  be  to  give  the  ring  without  Wotan. 
Shorn  of  it  the  owner  would  have  been  like  Alberich  sans 
tarnhelm.  As  an  Irishman  would  say:  his  hat  was  his  heel 
of  Achilles.  He  was  said  to  wear  it  while  sleeping,  if  he 
ever  slept.  Inside  was  stencilled  the  wisdom  of  Candide: 
"II  faut  cultiver  notre  Jardin"  (Mary,  of  course).  Many 
painters  have  yearned  to  portray  that  hat  on  Oscar's  dome 
of  action.  The  Impressionists  would  paint  its  comple 
mentary  tones:  the  late  William  M.  Chase  would  have 
transformed  it  into  a  shiny  still-life;  George  Luks  would 
make  it  a  jest  of  Hades;  while  Arthur  B.  Davies  would 
turn  it  into  a  symbol — the  old  Hebraic  chant,  Kol  Nidrei, 
might  be  heard  echoing  about  its  curved  surfaces,  as 
echoes  the  Banshee  on  a  funereal  night  in  Tipperary.  It 
was  a  hat,  cosmopolitan,  joyous,  alert,  both  reticent  and 
expansive.  It  caused  a  lot  of  people  sleepless  nights, 
this  sawed-off  stovepipe  with  its  operatic  airs.  Why 
did  Oscar  Hammerstein  wear  it?  For  the  same  reason 
that  the  miller  wore  his  hat,  and  not  for  tribal  or  other 
reasons. 


VII 
ANTONIN  DVORAK 

It  was  Rafael  Joseffy  who  introduced  me  to  Mrs. 
Jeannette  M.  Thurber.  This  energetic  and  public- 
spirited  lady,  who  accomplished  more  by  her  failures 
than  other  people's  successes,  met  with  an  enormous 
amount  of  critical  opposition  when  she  started  the  Ameri 
can  opera  movement.  Some  of  her  opponents  would 
have  liked  to  mount  the  "band  wagon,"  and,  failing, 
abused  her  audacity.  But  she  had  the  right  idea  which 
was  the  French  one.  She  first  founded  a  National  Con 
servatory  in  1 88 1,  where  musical  talent  was  welcomed 
and  tuition  free.  There  was  a  "theatre  d'application," 
with  Emy  Fursch-Madi,  Victor  Capoul,  Emil  Fischer,  M. 
Dufriche,  Jacques  Bouhy,  and  other  famous  opera  sing 
ers  and  teachers,  wherein  the  rudiments  of  acting  and 
vocal  delivery  could  be  mastered.  What  a  list  of  artists 
the  faculty  comprised !  Antonin  Dvorak,  the  great  Bo 
hemian  composer,  in  his  prime,  was  musical  director; 
Rafael  Joseffy  and  Adele  Margulies — a  fine  pianist  and 
founder  of  the  Margulies  Trio — headed  the  piano  de 
partment;  Camilla  Urso,  greatest  of  women  violinists, 
Victor  Herbert,  then  a  leading  solo  violoncellist,  Leopold 
Lichtenberg,  formerly  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra, 
and  one  of  the  most  brilliant  American  talents  I  recall— 
although  John  F.  Rhodes,  of  Philadelphia,  had  an  im 
mense  technical  gift — Anton  SeidI,  Otto  Oesterle,  the 
flutist  of  the  Thomas  Orchestra  and  the  Philharmonic 

65 


66  STEEPLEJACK 

Society,  conductor  Frank  Van  der  Stucken,  Emil  Paur, 
C.  P.  Warren,  organist,  Bruno  Oscar  Klein,  Horatio 
Parker,  Wassili  Safanoff,  Gustav  Hinrichs,  John  Cheshire, 
the  harpist,  Sapio,  Fritz  Geise,  great  Dutch  cellist  of  the 
Kneisel  Quartet,  Leo  Schulz,  first  cellist  of  the  Philhar 
monic,  Julia  Wyman,  all  these  and  others  were  teachers 
at  this  institution,  which  was  then  located  on  Seven 
teenth  Street,  east  of  Irving  Place.  Well  I  remember 
the  day  that  I  begged  Harry  Rowe  Shelley,  the  Brooklyn 
organist,  to  submit  his  compositions  to  Dvorak;  later  he 
became  one  of  the  pupils  of  that  master;  some  of  the 
others  were  Rubin  Goldmark,  nephew  of  the  famous 
composer,  himself  one  of  the  most  gifted  among  our 
younger  Americans.  Harvey  W.  Loomis,  Henry  Waller, 
Harry  T.  Burleigh,  the  popular  coloured  barytone,  now 
a  composer  of  repute,  and  William  Arms  Fisher.  Henry 
T.  Finck,  the  faithful,  still  lectures  in  the  National  Con 
servatory  at  its  new  building  on  the  West  Side.  I  taught 
piano  classes  twice  weekly  for  ten  years,  and  in  addition 
was  the  press  representative  of  the  Conservatory  and 
secretary  to  the  Secretary,  Mr.  Stanton,  and  after  he 
died,  I  was  a  secretary  to  Mrs.  Thurber,  my  chief  duty 
being  a  daily  visit  at  her  residence,  where  I  sat  for  an 
hour  and  admired  her  good  looks.  She  was  a  pic 
turesque  woman,  Gallic  in  her  "allures,"  but  more  Span 
ish  than  French  in  features.  She  spoke  French  like  a 
Parisian,  and  after  thirty  years  I  confess  that  her  fine, 
dark,  eloquent  eyes  troubled  my  peace  more  than  once. 
But  I  only  took  it  out  in  staring.  Curiously  to  relate, 
Mrs.  Thurber  has  changed  but  little,  a  grey  lock  or  two, 
which  only  makes  her  more  picturesque  than  ever. 

Old  Borax,  as  Dvorak  was  affectionately  called,  was 
handed  over  to  me  by  Madame  Thurber  when  he  arrived. 


ANTONIN  DVORAK  67 

He  was  a  fervent  Roman  Catholic,  and  I  hunted  a  Bo 
hemian  church  for  him  as  he  began  his  day  with  an  early 
Mass.  Rather  too  jauntily  I  invited  him  to  taste  the 
American  drink  called  a  whisky  cocktail.  He  nodded 
his  head,  that  of  an  angry -looking  bulldog  with  a  beard. 
He  scared  one  at  first  with  his  fierce  Slavonic  eyes,  but 
was  as  mild  a  mannered  man  as  ever  scuttled  a  pupil's 
counterpoint.  I  always  spoke  of  him  as  a  boned  pirate. 
But  I  made  a  mistake  in  believing  that  American  strong 
waters  would  upset  his  Czech  nerves.  We  began  at 
Goerwitz,  then  described  a  huge  circle,  through  the  great 
thirst  belt  of  central  New  York.  At  each  place  Doc 
Borax  took  a  cocktail.  Now,  alcohol  I  abhor,  so  I  stuck 
to  my  guns,  the  usual  three-voiced  invention,  hops,  malt, 
and  spring  water.  We  spoke  in  German  and  I  was  happy 
to  meet  a  man  whose  accent  and  grammar  were  worse 
than  my  own.  Yet  we  got  along  swimmingly — an  ap 
propriate  enough  image,  for  the  weather  was  wet, 
though  not  squally.  He  told  me  of  Brahms  and 
that  composer's  admiration  for  Dvorak.  I  agreed  with 
Brahms.  Dvorak  had  a  fresh,  vigorous  talent,  was  a 
born  Impressionist,  and  possessed  a  happy  colour  sense 
in  his  orchestration.  His  early  music  was  the  best;  he 
was  an  imitator  of  Schubert  and  Wagner,  and  never 
used  quotation  marks.  But  the  American  theory  of 
native  music  never  appealed  to  me.  He  did,  and  dex 
terously,  use  some  negro,  or  alleged  negro,  tunes  in  his 
"New  World  Symphony,"  and  in  one  of  his  string  quar 
tets;  but  if  we  are  to  have  true  American  music  it  will 
not  stem  from  "darky"  roots,  especially  as  the  most 
original  music  of  that  kind  thus  far  written  is  by  Stephen 
Foster,  a  white  man.  The  influence  of  Dvorak's  Ameri 
can  music  has  been  evil;  ragtime  is  the  popular  pabulum 


68  STEEPLEJACK 

now.  I  need  hardly  add  that  the  negro  is  not  the  original 
race  of  our  country.  And  ragtime  is  only  rhythmic 
motion,  not  music.  The  Indian  has  more  pretensions 
musically  as  E.  A.  MacDowell  has  shown  in  his  Suite  for 
Orchestra.  This  statement  does  not  impeach  the  charm 
of  the  African  music  made  by  Harry  Burleigh;  I  only 
wish  to  emphasise  my  disbelief  in  the  fine-spun  theories 
of  certain  folk-lorists.  MacDowell  is  our  most  truly  na 
tive  composer,  as  an  Alsatian-born  is  now  our  most 
potent  American  composer.  His  name  is  Charles  Martin 
Loeffler,  and  he  shared  the  first  desk  of  the  violins  in  the 
Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  with  Franz  Kneisel,  a  noble 
artist.  I  mention  Loeffler  lest  we  forget. 

But  Borax !  I  left  him  swallowing  his  nineteenth 
cocktail.  "Master,"  I  said,  rather  thickly,  "don't  you 
think  it's  time  we  ate  something?"  He  gazed  at  me 
through  those  awful  whiskers  which  met  his  tumbled 
hair  half-way:  "Eat.  No.  I  no  eat.  We  go  to  a  Hous 
ton  Street  restaurant.  You  go,  hein?  We  drink  the 
Slivavitch.  It  warms  you  after  so  much  beer."  I  didn't 
go  that  evening  to  the  East  Houston  Street  Bohemian 
cafe  with  Dr.  Antonin  Dvorak.  I  never  went  with  him. 
Such  a  man  is  as  dangerous  to  a  moderate  drinker  as  a 
false  beacon  is  to  a  shipwrecked  sailor.  And  he  could 
drink  as  much  spirits  as  I  could  the  amber  brew.  No, 
I  assured  Mrs.  Thurber  that  I  was  through  with  piloting 
him.  When  I  met  Old  Borax  again  at  Sokel  Hall,  the 
Bohemian  resort  on  the  East  Side,  I  deliberately  dodged 
him.  I  taught  one  class  which  was  nicknamed  "in  dark 
est  Africa"  because  all  the  pupils  were  coloured.  I  con 
fess  a  liking  for  negroes,  possibly  because  of  my  child 
hood  days  spent  in  Maryland.  They  are  very  human, 
very  musical,  their  rhythmic  sense  remarkable.  I  had 


ANTONIN  DVORAK  69 

a  talented  pupil  named  Paul  Bolin,  who  also  studied 
organ  with  Heinroth;  and  another,  Henry  Guy,  whose 
piano  talent  was  not  to  be  denied.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  this  pupil  play  Mendelssohn's  "Cappriccio 
Brillante"  in  B  minor  with  an  orchestra  conducted  by 
Gustav  Hinrichs,  well  known  to  Philadelphians  for  his 
pioneer  work  there  in  opera.  Both  these  young  men  are 
now  professionals,  and  like  the  many  hundreds  educated 
at  the  National  Conservatory,  are  earning  their  living  in 
a  dignified  manner.  What  Mrs.  Thurber  has  done  for 
the  negro  alone  will,  I  hope,  be  credited  to  her  account 
in  any  history  of  the  coloured  race.  Her  musical  activi 
ties  are  still  unabated.  In  1891,  Congress  granted  her 
school  a  charter,  and  the  privilege  of  conferring  the 
degree  of  musical  doctorship.  With  the  war  over,  the 
National  Conservatory  should  by  right  of  precedent, 
and  by  reason  of  the  vast  good  accomplished  in  the  mu 
sical  world  since  1881,  be  made  a  national  institution, 
So  mote  it  be. 


VIII 
STEINWAY  HALL 

Old  Steinway  Hall  on  East  Fourteenth  Street,  where  it 
is  at  present,  was  my  favourite  rendezvous.  It  was  the 
musical  centre  of  the  city.  William  Steinway,  high  in 
political  councils,  was  a  genuine  philanthropist.  He 
assisted  struggling  talent.  He  had  his  hand,  a  charitable 
one,  in  every  enterprise  of  musical  moment.  A  generous, 
hearty,  forthright  man.  His  chief  aid  was  Charles  F. 
Tretbar,  in  charge  of  the  artistic  section  of  the  hall. 
Mr.  Tretbar  managed  visiting  pianists,  and  helped  to 
organise  such  orchestral  concerts  as  those  given  by  Theo 
dore  Thomas  and  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  It 
was  in  Steinway  Hall  that  I  first  heard  the  band  from 
Boston,  Gericke,  conductor,  and  Kneisel,  concert-master. 
I  was  fresh  from  the  orchestra  of  the  Paris  Conservatoire, 
but  it  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  Boston's  pride.  One 
rival  it  had,  still  has,  the  Vienna  Philharmonic,  which  I 
last  heard  in  1913  under  Felix  Weingartner.  As  for  piano 
recitals,  they  rained  on  you;  even  in  those  days  every 
body  played  the  piano  well,  as  Felix  Leifels  has  truthfully 
observed.  It  was  there  I  heard  Karl  Klindworth  play 
Chopin,  but  I  preferred  his  masterly  edition  of  the  mas 
ter's  music  to  his  personal  performance.  A  giant  then 
was  Edmund  Neupert,  the  Norwegian,  to  whom  Edvard 
Grieg  dedicated  his  A  minor  concerto,  because  it  is  said 
Neupert  composed  for  it  that  massive  cadenza  in  the 
first  movement.  Certainly  no  one  before  or  since  inter 
preted  the  work  as  did  Neupert,  and  I  heard  Grieg  him- 

70 


STEIN  WAY  HALL  71 

self  in  London.  Neupert's  eyes  were  so  large,  liquid,  and 
luminous  that  Madame  Alice  Garrigue-Mott  hinted  a  sum 
mer  chalet  might  have  been  built  on  their  edge.  (Come 
on  in,  the  water's  fine !)  He  had  an  orchestral  style,  and 
he  was  to  be  found  nightly  at  Maurer's  or  the  Hotel 
Liszt.  Think  of  a  Liszt  Hotel  on  Fourteenth  Street ! 
Truly  a  musical  neighbourhood.  Later  it  reminded  me 
of  the  hotels  and  apartment  houses  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Hispanic  Museum  in  Audubon  Park,  founded  by  Archer 
M.  Huntington.  At  every  turn  you  read  such  names  as 
Velasquez,  Goya,  Murillo  or  El  Greco. 

Steinway  Hall  was  once  the  resort  of  our  crowd  com 
posed  of  Harry  Rowe  Shelley,  Harry  Orville  Brown, 
Henry  Junge,  John  Kuehl,  Joseffy,  Fiiedheim,  Max 
Bendix,  Victor  Herbert,  and,  when  in  town,  the  witty 
Moriz  Rosenthal.  It  was  in  Steinway  Hall,  at  a  Thomas 
concert,  I  heard  JosefFy  strike  a  false  note  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  my  life,  and  of  all  concertos  the  E  minor 
was  the  one  he  played  the  best.  The  arpeggio  after  the 
opening  chords,  he  rolled  to  the  top,  but  didn't  strike 
the  E.  I  remember  Theodore  Thomas  staring  at  the 
back  of  the  little  virtuoso  as  if  he  thought  him  insane. 
If  burning  glances  could  have  slain,  JosefFy  would  have 
died  on  the  stage  that  afternoon.  But  it  didn't  disturb 
him.  I  heard  Rubinstein  make  a  slip  at  one  of  his  his 
torical  concerts,  but  with  magnificent  nonchalance  he 
took  as  a  point  of  departure  the  false  note  at  the  top 
and  rolled  down  the  keyboard,  only  to  roll  up  again  in 
the  correct  tonality.  But  he  wasn't  playing  with  or 
chestra. 


IX 

A  PRIMA  DONNA'S  FAMILY 

About  1888  the  general  character  of  New  York  began 
to  change.  The  foreign  influx  had  become  accelerated. 
Barn-like  structures  invaded  the  residential  section; 
along  the  Avenue  strange  tribes  crowded  the  native  off 
the  sidewalk.  And  that  was  thirty  years  ago !  To-day 
we  are  living  in  an  Asiatic  metropolis;  New  Cosmopolis 
I  have  called  it.  As  the  "old  Knickerbocker  families" 
have  sold,  still  are  selling,  their  birthright  no  fault  need 
be  found  with  the  present  conquerors.  The  melting-pot, 
which  doesn't  always  melt,  is  rapidly  dimming  hopes. 
Irving  Place  at  that  time  was  not  the  street  of  tall  build 
ings  it  now  is ;  rows  of  modest  three-story  dwellings  from 
Fifteenth  Street  to  Gramercy  Park  were  occupied,  for 
the  most  part,  by  their  owners,  and  interspersed  with 
comfortable  lodging  or  boarding  houses.  The  only  thing 
that  hasn't  suffered  a  change  is  the  sky-line  at  either  end 
of  the  street;  the  park  on  the  upper  side,  and  the  familiar 
facade  of  the  restaurant  at  Fourteenth  Street  are  still 
there.  Unchanged,  too,  is  Washington  Irving's  pretty 
cottage  at  the  corner  of  Seventeenth  Street.  A  block 
away  is  Union  Square.  Old  Moretti  gave  you  perfect 
spaghetti  in  his  original  home  on  Fourteenth  Street,  and 
Italian  opera  was  heard  at  the  Academy  of  Music.  The 
golden  age  of  the  cuisine,  music,  art,  and  letters  in  the  old 
town  are  gone,  never  to  return.  For  daily  exercise 
I  usually  walked  around  Union  Square;  the  park  railings 

72 


A   PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  73 

had  been  removed,  but  the  square  was  not  yet  spoiled 
by  tramps  or  disfigured  by  shanties.  There  were  trees, 
shady  seats,  and  the  sound  of  fountains.  Gloomy  busi 
ness  lofts  did  not  hem  in  this  park,  and  on  summer  eve 
nings  it  was  a  favoured  promenade  for  residents  in  the 
vicinity.  Several  seasons  I  had  noticed  a  ponderous 
dame  of  certain  years,  and  fantastically  attired,  escorted 
by  a  tall  elderly  man  with  a  grizzled  beard,  and  had  been 
informed  that  the  lady  was  a  well-known  singing-teacher, 
Madame  Miramelli,  or  to  give  her  full  title,  Miramelli- 
Mario.  The  soldierly  looking  man  was  M.  Mario,  ex- 
barytone,  and  the  manager  of  his  wife's  affairs.  She  had 
a  studio  on  Irving  Place,  one  flight  up;  the  basement 
was  a  Turkish  bath.  On  the  two  door-plates  you  read 
the  rather  confusing  legend:  "Miramelli:  Vocal  Instruc 
tion";  and  "Baths:  Turkish  and  Russian.  Downstairs." 
However,  the  numerous  singing  pupils  that  streamed  in 
from  eight  A.  M.  to  six  P.  M.  didn't  seem  to  mind  this 
jumbling  of  music  and  manners,  and  "Madame" 
was  too  busy  to  bother  about  it.  Curiously  enough, 
whenever  I  passed  the  house  her  husband  was  either 
entering  or  emerging.  He  was  a  busy  man.  I  did  not 
meet  him  personally  till  later  at  the  old  Belvedere  House, 
Fourth  Avenue  and  Eighteenth  Street — now  only  a  pleas 
ant  memory.  It  was  during  luncheon,  and,  as  we  shared 
the  same  table,  I  spoke  to  him  about  the  excellent  coffee. 
He  elevated  his  shoulders,  and  in  his  reply  I  found  less 
of  the  Italian  and  more  of  the  Slav  than  I  had  expected 
from  one  of  his  appearance.  He  explained  to  me  that 
he  had  spent  twenty  years  at  the  Royal  Opera,  Petrograd. 
We  slipped  into  an  easy-going  acquaintance,  and  met, 
now  at  Riccadonna's  on  the  Square,  or  at  Morelli's  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  also  at  Lienau's  and  Maurer's;  at  the 


74  STEEPLEJACK 

last  named  resort  for  the  sake  of  the  excellent  wines. 
The  taste  of  M.  Mario  was  cosmopolitan.  But  no  matter 
his  whereabouts,  at  seven  o'clock  every  evening  he  could 
be  seen  piloting  his  heavy  wife  around  Union  Square; 
she,  fatigued,  though  voluble,  he  taciturn  and  melan 
choly.  They  did  not  create  the  impression  of  a  well- 
mated  couple.  One  day,  when  I  had  occasion  to  call 
upon  him,  the  little  maid  who  opened  the  door  shrew- 
ishly,  responded  to  my  question  "Is  M.  Mario  at  home?" 
with  "You  mean  the  husband  of  Madame?  "  That  threw 
some  light  on  their  domestic  relations,  and  when  I  saw 
him  shovelling  snow,  carrying  bundles  and  market  bas 
kets,  or  running  errands,  I  realised  his  subaltern  position 
in  the  artistic  partnership.  I  was  then  a  music-critic, 
and  possibly  the  friendly  advances  made  by  M.  Mario 
were  prompted  by  professional  reasons.  Yet  he  never 
hinted  that  his  wife  gave  annually  a  concert  at  which 
her  pupils  were  supposed  to  distinguish  themselves.  He 
possessed  tact,  was  educated,  and  a  linguist.  His  clothes, 
while  not  of  a  fashionable  cut,  were  neat  and  clean. 
Perhaps  M.  Mario  did  take  a  drop  too  much  and  too 
often,  though  I  vow  I  never  saw  him  the  worse  for  it. 
He  seldom  appeared  at  any  of  his  daily  posts  after  seven 
o'clock,  so  I  set  him  down  as  an  early  bird,  till  one  night 
returning  late  from  the  opera  I  saw  him  sitting  on  a 
Union  Square  bench,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  It  was 
moonlight.  I  hesitated,  fearing  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
disturbed.  Then  I  suddenly  changed  my  mind.  I 
called  out:  "Hello,  my  friend!  What  are  you  doing  up 
so  late?"  He  instantly  arose  and  I  saw  that  he  had 
been  weeping,  but  was  sober.  I  joked  and  invited  him 
to  Liichow's.  He  gravely  refused.  "It  is  this  way," 
he  said  in  his  strangely  streaked  accent.  "I  was  warm 


A   PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  75 

and  didn't  sleep.  I  sometimes  worry.  I " —  he  stopped, 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  asked:  "Couldn't  you  come  to 
Madame's  to-morrow  morning,  say  about  noontime?  I 
promise  you  a  surprise.  A  young  voice,  bell-like,  with 
velvet  added  to  the  crystalline  quality" — he  was  strangely 
excited,  as  are  all  artists  when  a  rare  talent  is  discovered. 
I  promised,  though  I  dislike  hearing  novices,  especially 
when  the  affair  smacks  of  reclame.  But  the  agitation  of 
M.  Mario  was  unmistakable,  his  interest  sincere,  and, 
thinking  that  there  had  been  a  family  row,  and  I  could 
do  him  a  favour,  I  said  yes,  and  at  noon  the  next  day  I 
passed  the  office  of  the  Turkish  bath  on  the  first  floor 
and  reached  the  studio  of  Madame  Miramelli. 

She  was  at  her  piano,  a  battered  instrument  still  ser 
viceable,  and  she  only  inclined  her  head  on  my  entrance. 
Evidently  I  was  not  too  welcome.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  stood  a  young  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen.  She 
was  blonde  of  complexion  and  dressed  her  hair  in  foreign 
fashion.  She  was  indifferently  clad.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  taken  by  her  face,  not  so  pretty  as  attractive.  Her 
features  were  irregular,  her  nose  snub,  but  her  large  blue 
eyes — the  clear  eyes  of  a  congenital  liar — blazed  with 
intense  feeling  and  her  mouth  quivered.  No  wonder. 
Madame  Miramelli  had  been  scolding  her.  "Lyda,"  she 
screamed — a  long  name  followed,  Slavic  in  sound,  be 
ginning  with  the  letter  Z — "Lyda,  you  sing  like  five  pigs  ! 
If  you  sing  thus  to  the  gentleman,  I  believe  a  critic"- 
she  lifted  her  savage  old  eyebrows  sardonically— -"you 
will  drive  him  away.  As  for  my  beloved  husband" 
more  pantomime — "he  thinks  you  are  to  become  a  second 
Gerster  or  Nilsson.  Don't  disappoint  him,  for  he  is  the 
greatest  living  ex-barytone  and  a  wonderful  judge."  She 
would  have  continued  this  nasty  railing  tone  if  M.  Mario 


76  STEEPLEJACK 

hadn't  entered  and  seated  himself  near  the  girl.  His 
wife  stared  at  him  and  his  eyes  fell.  Shrugging  her  fat 
shoulders  she  cried:  "Again!  Skip  the  introduction, 
begin  at  the  aria."  She  struck  a  chord.  The  girl 
looked  entreatingly  at  the  husband,  who  literally  trem 
bled;  his  expression  was  one  of  mingled  fear  and  ad 
miration.  His  eyes  blazed,  too;  he  folded  his  arms  and 
his  whole  being  was  concentrated  in  his  hearing. 

The  girl  sang.  He  had  not  boasted,  her  voice  was  like 
a  velvet  bell.  She  sang  with  facility,  though  her  musical 
conception  was  immature,  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Without  doubt  a  promising  talent.  When  she  finished 
M.  Mario  shook  her  by  the  hand,  which  limply  fell  as 
he  released  it;  he  led  her  to  a  seat  and  to  my  pity  and 
astonishment,  I  saw  that  she  was  lame,  sadly  lame,  her 
gait  was  waddling,  almost  ludicrous,  so  distorted  was  the 
hip  movement.  My  gaze  collided  with  the  eyes  of  the 
old  woman  at  the  keyboard,  and  if  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  infernal  malice  blended  with  hateful  jealousy,  it  was 
expressed  by  her  face.  She  held  her  silence  and  feeling 
the  unbearable  tension,  I  said  some  pleasant,  conven 
tional  words  to  the  timid  girl,  bowed  to  Madame,  and 
left  the  room.  M.  Mario  accompanied  me  to  the  street, 
but  did  not  ask  for  further  criticism,  though  thanking 
me  for  my  kindness  in  giving  so  much  of  my  "valuable 
time."  I  cut  him  short  and  escaped,  not  without  notic 
ing  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  Decidedly  an  emotional  man 
—or  an  old  fool,  too  easily  affected  by  a  pretty  voice. 
But  the  lameness !  maybe  that  had  aroused  his  interest; 
also  disgusted  him  with  his  wife's  sharp  tongue  and  un- 
amiable  demeanour  towards  the  poor  girl.  Ah !  these 
ancient  prima  donnas  and  the  tyrannical  airs  they  as 
sume  for  the  benefit  of  their  pupils  and  their  superflu- 


A   PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  77 

ous  husbands.  The  husband  of  Madame !  It  was  a 
tragi-comedy,  his;  yet,  why  should  he  become  so  tearful 
over  the  lame  girl  with  the  lovely  voice  and  plaintive 
eyes?  Madame  was  jealous  and  the  girl  wouldn't  be 
treated  any  too  well  because  the  husband  was  sentimental. 

The  musical  season  had  set  in,  and  on  the  wings  of 
song  and  symphony  I  was  whirled  away  from  memories 
of  Irving  Place  and  the  pupils  of  Madame  Miramelli- 
Mario.  But  as  the  winter  modulated  into  spring,  I 
occasionally  thought  of  these  people,  though  one  warbler 
in  the  present  is  worth  a  dozen  in  the  future.  It  was 
May  before  I  again  saw  M.  Mario.  He  pretended  not 
to  know  me;  at  least,  it  looked  so.  I  was  offended.  I 
knew  his  odd  habits.  In  the  evenings  I  resumed  my  old 
walks  about  the  square,  more  as  an  appetiser  than  a  diver 
sion.  Precisely  at  seven  o'clock  the  musical  couple 
slowly  moved  through  the  park.  I  avoided  them.  They 
seemed,  as  ever,  bored,  and  I  noted  that  Madame  was 
no  longer  loquacious.  These  walks  continued  for  a 
month,  when  one  afternoon  I  found  M.  Mario  at  the 
fountain  gazing  at  the  water.  I  saluted  him  and  was 
shocked  by  his  altered  exterior.  He  had  thinned,  was 
neglected  looking,  his  linen  not  too  new,  and  he  had  a 
desperate  air.  In  a  stately  style  he  bowed,  and  to  my 
inquiry  as  to  his  health  he  did  not  reply.  "Come  and 
have  a  drink,"  I  bade  him,  "it  will  cheer  you."  We 
went  across  to  Brubacher's  cafe,  where  they  played  chess 
in  those  times,  and  I  asked  M.  Mario:  "And  that  girl 
with  the  splendid  soprano — is  she  improving?"  His 
eyes  filled.  "She  is  no  longer  with  us,"  he  answered. 
"Too  bad,"  I  commented.  "She  had  talent,  though  I 
fancy  her  lameness  would  hurt  her  career;  still,  there  was 


78  STEEPLEJACK 

Carlotta  Patti" — he  raised  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
supplication.  "No,"  he  whispered,  "she  was  driven  out- 
of-doors  by  Madame  Mario."  I  was  utterly  taken  aback. 
Driven  away  because  of  petty  jealousy.  Then  the  hu 
morous  side  struck  me.  "I  fear  you  are  a  Don  Juan, 
my  friend.  Can  you  blame  your  good  wife?  Such  a 
handsome  chap  as  you,  and  still  dangerous,  you  know" — 
He  stopped  me.  "Say  no  more,  caro  amico,  the  sub 
ject  touches  me  too  closely.  Yes,  Madame  Mario  is 
jealous.  That  girl — that  girl — how  shall  I  say  it?  My 
first  love,  she  is  dead.  She  was  a  great  dramatic  soprano, 
a  Russian,  and  that  girl — she  is  my  daughter,  she  ..." 
I  was  tremendously  excited.  :<Your  daughter!  Now  I 
see  it  all."  ''You  see  nothing,"  he  tersely  replied.  I 
persisted.  "But  does  your  wife  know  the  girl  is  yours?" 
He  shook  his  head  and  took  a  sip  of  wine.  I  was  puz 
zled.  After  all,  it  was  not  polite  to  put  such  personal 
questions.  "Pardon  me,  M.  Mario,  but  I  can't  help 
feeling  interested."  He  pressed  my  hand.  We  sat  in 
silence,  then  he  exclaimed:  "I  was  crazy  to  bring  the  girl 
to  her,  I  hoped  for  a  magnificent  artistic  future.  No, 
Madame  Mario  doesn't  know;  she  shall  never  know. 
She  is  jealous  of  the  girl's  youth,  jealous  of  me,  of  my 
own  daughter —  I  hastily  interposed.  "Well,  why 
didn't  you  tell  her?"  "Why?  Why?  Because  the 
girl  doesn't  know  it  herself.  Because  I  am  a  miserable 
coward,  afraid  of  my  old  she  devil.  Because  ..."  He 
went  away  without  saying  good-by,  leaving  me  in  a 
stupefying  fog  of  conjecture.  That  evening  for  the  first 
time  the  husband  of  Madame  did  not  keep  company 
with  her  in  their  promenade  around  old  Union  Square. 

I  possess  an  indifferent  sense  of  time;  the  years  pass 
and  leave  little  impress  on  my  spirit.     Nevertheless,  I'm 


A   PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  79 

sure  I  felt  older  when  on  a  certain  evening  at  Carnegie 
Hall  I  awaited  without  undue  impatience  the  debut  of  a 
much  advertised  Russian  soprano,  Zelocca,  or  some  such 
name.  It  was  to  be  one  of  those  tiresome  mixed  con 
certs  in  which  a  mediocre  pianist,  violinist,  or  tenor  with 
bleating  voice,  or  an  impossible  buffo-basso,  participate. 
The  only  missing  element  of  horror  on  the  bill  of  fare 
was  a  flute  virtuoso;  but  flutists  and  harps  as  solo  instru 
ments  were  no  longer  in  mode.  However,  as  a  seasoned 
veteran  I  settled  in  my  seat  prepared  for  the  worst.  It 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  young  woman  who  gave  her  audi 
ence  a  dislocated  version  of  the  Chopin  Ballade  in  the 
ingratiating  key  of  A  flat.  I  regret  to  add  that  she  was 
applauded,  but  concerts  of  this  sort  are  the  joy  of  the 
encore  fiends,  who  were  out  in  force  that  evening.  The 
tenor  sobbed  his  aria,  and  then  came  the  bright  star  of 
the  entertainment.  A  blonde  woman  of  some  distinc 
tion,  at  least  twenty-eight  years  old,  hobbled  over  the 
stage,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  accompanist.  It  was 
Madame  Zelocca,  "the  greatest  living  exponent  of  col 
oratura  singing."  I  confess  I  was  neither  intrigued  by 
this  managerial  proclamation,  nor  by  the  personality  of 
the  singer.  What  did  interest  me,  however,  was  the  idea 
that  perhaps  Carlotta  Patti  might  have  a  successor. 
Zelocca  sang  the  Bell  Song  from  "Lakme,"  a  mild,  pre 
paratory  exercise  to  "warm"  her  fluty  tones.  Yes,  it 
was  a  marvellous  voice,  wide  in  range,  of  extraordinary 
agility,  and  the  timbre  was  of  a  fruity  richness.  And  she 
sang  as  only  an  accomplished  artist  can  sing.  When  she 
limped  away,  after  applause  hearty  enough  to  awaken 
even  the  critics,  a  compartment  in  my  memory  flew  open 
and  out  popped  the  past — Irving  Place,  and  the  white, 
hard  light  of  a  shabby  music-room,  a  lame  girl  singing  in 


So  STEEPLEJACK 

the  middle  of  the  room,  a  sour-faced  foreign  woman 
accompanying  her;  and  the  most  vivid  impression — a 
middle-aged  man  devouring  the  girl  with  a  gaze  in  which 
was  equally  mixed  pride  and  humility.  It  was  the 
protege  of  Madame  Miramelli-Mario.  Why  had  I  not 
immediately  recognised  this  lame  singer?  And  what  was 
the  use  of  my  musical  memory  if  I  couldn't  recall  the 
colour  of  this  brilliant  voice.  But  a  decade  and  more  had 
passed  since  I  first  heard  the  girl  Lyda,  now  Madame,  or 
was  it  Signorina  Zelocca?  Much  music  had  filtered 
through  the  porches  of  my  ears  since  then.  Was  I  to 
blame  for  my  short  memory — hush !  here  she  is  once 
more. 

For  her  second  number  Zelocca  sang,  and  with  astound 
ing  bravura,  the  famous  aria  from  "The  Magic  Flute," 
followed  it  with  Rossinian  fireworks,  and  threw  in  "The 
Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  and  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  as 
crumbs  of  consolation  for  a  now  frantic  audience — in  a 
word,  she  played  at  ease  with  the  whole  bag  of  prima 
donna  tricks.  It  needed  no  prophet  to  tell  us  that  she 
was  not  only  a  great  singer,  but  also  a  money-maker  of 
superlative  possibilities.  Pardon  my  cynical  way  of  put 
ting  things.  The  practice,  year  in,  year  out,  of  musical 
criticism  doesn't  make  a  man  an  idealist.  This  young 
woman,  with  the  opulent  figure,  lark-like  voice,  and 
homely,  though  intelligent  face,  would  surely  prove  the 
successor  of  Carlotta  Patti,  lima  di  Murska,  and  other 
song-birds  with  gold-mines  in  their  throats.  But  only  in 
the  concert  room;  in  opera  her  lameness  would  be  deplor 
able;  she  floundered  rather  than  walked.  Yet,  such  was 
the  magnetism  of  her  voice.  .  .  . 

I  pushed  my  way  to  the  corridors,  leaving  a  mob  of 
lunatics  clustered  about  the  stage  clamouring  for  more, 


A  PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  81 

like  true  daughters  of  the  horse-leech.  As  the  front  of 
the  house  was  impassable,  I  tried  to  go  out  by  the  Fifty- 
sixth  Street  artists'  entrance,  but  before  I  reached  the 
door,  I  was  in  a  midst  of  babbling  humanity.  Some 
sinister  magic  must  lurk  in  music  that  can  thus  trans 
form  sensible  men  and  women  into  irresponsible  beings. 
It  is  called  temperament,  but  I  think  it  is  our  quotidian 
sensual  souls  out  of  the  loose.  Pushed  and  shoved  as  I 
was,  I  felt  my  arm  grabbed.  I  turned.  It  was  Mario, 
but  aged  a  quarter  of  a  century,  so  it  seemed  to  me;  per 
haps  it  was  the  uncertain  light,  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  perhaps  because  I  hadn't  seen  him  for  years. 
His  face  was  full  of  gnarled  lines,  his  hair  and  beard 
white;  his  large,  dark  eyes  alone  hinted  at  their  former 
vitality.  They  burned  with  a  sombre  fire,  and  if  ever  a 
man  looked  as  if  he  was  standing  on  the  very  hub  of  hell 
it  was  poor  old  Mario.  Why  hadn't  I  thought  of  him 
earlier  in  the  evening  as  the  father  of  Zelocca?  I  whis 
pered  vague  congratulations.  He  didn't  hear  me,  his 
face  was  that  of  a  gambler  who  has  played  his  last  and 
lost.  Gradually  I  fought  my  way  through  a  phalanx  of 
half-crazy  humans,  Mario  tugging  at  my  arm.  We  found 
ourselves  on  Fifty-sixth  Street,  and  I  hastened  to  tell 
him  the  pleasure  I  had  experienced,  adding:  "And  you, 
aren't  you  proud  to  be  her  father?"  "Yes,  I  am  proud." 
His  toneless  voice  surprised  me.  I  continued:  "What 
did  she  say  when  she  saw  you,  for  you  were  her  first  in 
spiration?"  "I  was  her  first  inspiration."  This  echo 
annoyed  me.  Was  the  poor  chap  too  feeble  to  realise 
the  triumph  of  his  daughter?  "Wasn't  she  glad  to  see 
you?"  I  persisted.  He  stopped  under  an  electric  light 
and  gave  me  a  bewildered  look.  Then  more  explicitly: 
"No,  she  wasn't  glad.  I  went  in  after  her  first  aria, 


82  STEEPLEJACK 

which  Madame  Mirainelli-Mario,  God  rest  her  soul" — he 
piously  crossed  himself — "taught  her,  and" — "Well, 
well?"  I  impatiently  interposed.  "Well,  she  didn't  know 
me,  that's  all."  His  voice  trailed  into  ghostly  silence.  I 
became  indignant.  Such  abominable  ingratitude !  "  I 
tell  you  the  truth,"  he  reiterated.  "She  had  forgotten 
me,  my  face,  my  name,  and,  as  she  never  knew  I  was  her 
father  .  .  ."  He  paused.  To  the  heavens  I  whistled 
my  rage  and  incredulity.  "Much  must  have  happened 
to  her  in  ten  years.  She  forgot,  sh^  forgot,  she  is  not  to 
blame — only  she  forgot  me.  .  .  /'  He  slowly  moved 
down  Broadway,  this  debris  of  a  greal  artist,  this  forgot 
ten  father  of  a  famous  singer,  with  a  convenient  memory. 
That  night,  at  the  office,  I  wrote  a  critical  notice 
about  his  daughter,  Zelocca,  which  bristled  with  techni 
cal  terms,  and  was  bejewelled  with  adjectives.  Was  she 
not  the  only  living  successor  of  Carlotta  Patti !  I  moaned 
as  I  thought  of  the  "inside"  story,  of  the  newspaper 
"beat"  I  had  burning  at  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  But  I 
had  to  play  fair  and  write  about  her  singing,  not  of  her 
wretched  behaviour  to  the  man  who  had  forwarded  her  on 
her  career.  The  Welsh  rabbit  I  ate  at  the  Arena  later 
did  not  console  my  palate.  I  went  to  bed  in  a  wretched 
humour. 

To  go  or  not  to  go?  For  hours  I  argued  the  case 
before  I  decided  to  accept  the  prettily  worded  invitation 
of  La  Zelocca  to  visit  her  some  afternoon,  or,  to  be  pre 
cise,  the  afternoon  following  the  arrival  of  her  note.  I 
dislike  informal  little  calls  upon  prima  donnas  at  hotels, 
where  you  usually  find  a  chain  of  adorers,  managers, 
press-agents,  and  anonymous  parasites.  Nevertheless,  I 
went  up  to  the  Plaza,  the  Lord  only  knows  why.  Per- 


A  PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  83 

haps  my  curiosity,  now  aflame,  would  be  gratified,  per 
haps  the  young  woman  might  make  an  excuse  for  her 
cold-blooded  behaviour  to  her  abandoned  father.  Who 
knows?  Some  such  idea  was  in  my  mind  when,  after 
the  pompous  preluding  of  my  presence,  I  knocked  at  the 
door  of  her  suite  in  the  hotel.  She  was  sitting  in  a  com 
fortable  room  and  gazing  upon  the  still  green  park.  I 
begged  of  her  not  to  derange  herself  as  she  made  a  feint 
of  rising,  and  saluted  her  with  the  conventional  kiss  on 
the  hand — I'm  bound  to  acknowledge  a  finely  articulated, 
well-kept  hand — and  in  return  was  warmly  welcomed. 
At  close  range,  Zelocca  was  handsomer  than  on  the  stage. 
Her  robust  figure  was  set  off  in  a  well-fitting  street  cos 
tume,  and  her  shapely  head  had  evidently  been  handled 
by  a  discriminating  hair-dresser.  We  conversed  of  the 
weather,  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  (mine  in  particular) 
and  I  ventured  to  ask  her  about  the  box-office.  Yes,  it 
had  pleased  her,  better  still,  it  had  pleased  her  manager 
— a  jewel  of  a  man,  be  it  understood.  She  spoke  in  a 
silvery  voice,  with  the  cool  assurance  of  a  woman  who 
fully  recognised  her  financial  worth.  We  drank  tea  in 
Russian  fashion.  I  saw  my  opening.  "So  you  were  in 
Russia  before  taking  the  western  world  by  storm?" 
"Ah,  yes,  cher  maitre"  (I  always  bristle  with  importance 
when  thus  addressed).  "I  studied  hard  in  Petrograd, 
and  benefited  by  my  intimacy  with  the  great  Zelocca." 
(I  was  puzzled.)  "I  am  a  relative  of  hers,  you  know. 
I  took  her  name  by  her  kind  permission.  My  mother 
gave  me  a  letter  to  her  when  I  left  New  York.  She  was 
a  friend  of  an  early  friend  of  my  mother's  husband." 
Her  mother!  Who  the  deuce  is  her  mother?  I  asked 
myself.  My  face  must  have  betrayed  me,  for  she  looked 
at  me  pensively  (her  eyes  were  truly  glorious  with  their 


84  STEEPLEJACK 

deceptive  frankness)  and  murmured:  "Of  course,  M. 
Mario  must  have  told  you  of  mother's  death."  I  under 
stood.  She  meant  old  Miramelli-Mario,  and  should 
have  said  stepmother.  I  nodded  as  sympathetically  as 
I  could — music-critics  are  sometimes  better  actors  than 
the  singers  they  criticise — and  replied:  "Yes,  yes,  M. 
Mario  told  me.  But  you  say  Zelocca  still  lives.  He 
said  to  me,  if  I  remember  aright,  that  she  was  dead  years 
ago."  She  seemed  startled  at  this  news.  "He  told  you 
— that !  Ah  !  the  miserable !"  I  jumped  at  the  chance. 
"But,  my  dear  lady,  he  is,  after  all,  your  father,  and  if  I 
guess  the  truth,  your  mother  in  Russia  has  proved  your 
best  friend.  I  mean  your  real  mother." 

She  harshly  interrupted:  "My  real  mother  was  a  she 
devil."  This  sounded  like  the  daughter  of  Mario. 
"And,"  she  angrily  pursued,  "she  treated  me  as  if  I  were 
a  kitchen-maid."  The  dramatic  manner  in  which  this 
speech  was  delivered  left  no  doubt  as  to  its  sincerity. 
Again  I  was  at  sea.  She  poured  a  torrent  of  words  into 
my  ears.  "My  father,  that  old  drunken  beast  my 
father?  If  you  only  knew  the  truth.  How  an  artiste 
must  suffer  before  she  drags  herself  out  of  the  mire !  It 
was  a  vile  swamp,  that  home  of  mine  on — on — '  She 
paused  for  want  of  the  name.  "On  Irving  Place,"  I 
interposed.  "Yes,  Irving  Place.  That  Mario  was  not 
my  father,  he  was  only  the  husband  of  Madame — and 
she — she  was,  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it,  my  true  mother." 
La  Bella  Zelocca  covered  her  face  with  her  eloquent 
hands,  while  her  shoulders  sobbed  if  her  throat  did  not. 
I  was  flabbergasted  by  this  unexpected,  this  absurd, 
revelation.  What  sort  of  a  deviPs  dance  had  I  been  led, 
what  kind  of  a  sinister  impasse  had  I  reached?  She  con- 


A  PRIMA  DONNA'S  FAMILY  85 

tinued,  her  face  still  hidden:  "A  cruel,  unnatural  mother, 
a  still  crueller  stepfather  ...  he  never  ceased  his  per 
secutions.  .  .  .  And  I  was  too  young,  too  timid,  too 
much  in  fear  of  my  jealous  mother — who  soon  found  out 
what  was  going  on.  That's  why  she  was  so  disagreeable 
the  day  you  called.  She  got  rid  of  me  soon  after  that 
— I  was  packed  off  to  Russia,  to  her  sister.  Oh  !  didn't  I 
tell  you  that  the  other  Zelocca  is  my  aunt?  No?  She 
is,  and  a  kinder  woman  than  was  my  mother.  Now  you 
know  why  I  wouldn't  see  the  old  rascal — who  expected 
to  live  on  me  as  he  had  lived  on  the  bounty  of  two  sisters 
— why — why —  " 

But  I  felt  that  my  presence  was  becoming  indecorous 
in  this  close  atmosphere  of  family  scandal.  I  arose, 
seized  my  hat.  She  sat  bolt  upright,  stiff  as  a  votive 
candle;  her  expression  was  one  of  annoyed  astonishment. 
"Surely  you  are  not  going  so  soon,  and  not  going  with 
out  a  word  of  sympathy !  You,  I  feel,  are  one  of  my 
oldest  and  truest  friends" — at  these  doleful  words  my 
tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth — "and  to  whom 
should  I  appeal  but  you?"  I  wriggled  but  saw  no  way 
of  escape.  Then  I  burst  forth.  "In  God's  name,  Ma 
dame,  what  can  I  say,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  This  is 
the  third  time  I've  seen  you  in  my  life.  I  only  knew  that 
venerable  scamp,  Mario,  superficially.  Your  mother, 
great  heavens !  your  mother  I've  seen  often  enough — too 
often."  She  beamed  on  me  and  became  so  excited  that 
she,  too,  got  on  her  feet,  supporting  herself  with  a  gold- 
topped  stick.  "Ah!"  she  triumphantly  cried,  "I  knew 
it,  I  knew  it.  You  are  the  man  I  thought  you  were. 
You  hated  my  mother.  You  despised  her  husband  and 
you  will,  I'm  sure,  help  me  in  my  search,  my  search — " 


86  STEEPLEJACK 

The  room  began  to  spin  slowly  around;  the  grand  piano 
seemed  to  tilt  my  way.  Possibly  Zelocca  saw  the  hunted 
look  in  my  eyes,  a  man  and  a  critic  at  bay,  for  she  ex 
ploded  the  question:  "You  will  look  for  him,  find  him, 
bring  him  to  me?"  I  wavered  in  my  walk  towards  the 
door,  fearing  heat  apoplexy,  yet  I  contrived  to  stammer: 
"Find— find— whom  shall  I  find  for  you?"  "My  real 
father,"  she  fairly  chanted,  and  her  face  was  as  the 
shining  face  of  an  ardent  neophyte  at  a  tremendously 
mystical  ceremony.  As  I  left  the  room  on  a  dead  run,  I 
swear  that  an  aureole  was  foaming  about  her  lovely  head. 
I  didn't  stop  sprinting  till  I  reached  the  ground  floor, 
ran  across  Fifty-ninth  Street  into  the  park,  and,  finally, 
at  the  Casino  I  threw  myself  into  a  seat  and  called  for 
— oh  !  it  wasn't  water;  after  such  a  display  of  drab  family 
linen  one  doesn't  drink  water.  Any  experienced  social 
washerwoman  will  tell  you  that.  By  Jove !  I  was  posi 
tively  nervous  with  their  crazy-quilt  relationships.  I 
pondered  the  situation.  Was  Zelocca  an  artistic  liar,  a 
wonderful  actress,  or  simply  a  warm-hearted  woman,  too 
enthusiastic,  in  search  of  a  father?  I  couldn't  make  up 
my  mind.  I  haven't  yet.  She  may  have  suspected  that 
my  critical  notice  of  her  forthcoming  second  concert 
might  not  be  so  fervid  as  the  first  because  of  Mario's  tale 
regarding  her  cruelty.  I've  known  singers  to  tell  worse 
lies  for  a  smaller  reason.  But  then,  she  had  won  her 
press  and  public;  her  next  appearance  was  bound  to  be  a 
repetition  of  the  premiere,  as  far  as  success  went.  No,  I 
give  it  up.  I  knew  I  should  go  to  all  her  concerts  and 
write  sweet  words  about  her  distinguished  art.  And  I 
did.  (Later  she  married  her  manager  and  ever  after 
wards  lived  unhappily.)  I'm  beginning  to  regret  I  left 


A  PRIMA  DONNA'S   FAMILY  87 

her  so  hurriedly  that  afternoon.  Perhaps  she  might  have 
given  me  a  clue.  What  a  liar  she  was !  Or  a  crazy 
woman !  Her  father,  I  believe,  was  M.  Mario,  the  hus 
band  of  Madame,  and  her  aunt —  Oh !  hang  her  Rus 
sian  aunt. 


X 
NEWSPAPER  EXPERIENCES 

The  daily  newspapers  I  worked  for  while  in  New  York 
City  were  not  many.  In  1891  The  Recorder  was  started 
with  heavy  financial  backing,  and  it  ran  a  half-dozen 
years,  losing  much  money  for  its  sponsors.  In  a  way  it 
was  a  pioneer  journal,  late-comer  as  it  was.  Novelties 
were  to  be  found  in  its  columns,  which  nowadays  are 
part  of  the  equipment  of  every  newspaper.  A  woman's 
page,  a  children's  page,  a  daily  column  devoted  to  theatre 
and  music  and  art  criticism  of  a  human  sort;  the  "ChoIIy 
Knickerbocker"  column  in  which  fashionable  folk  were 
written  about— John  W.  Keller  wrote  it — and,  last  but 
not  least,  old  Joe  Howard's  column  of  gossip  and  com 
ment,  ranging  in  subject  from  a  dog-fight  to  the  person 
ality  of  the  President.  These  three  columns  were  to  be 
found  on  the  editorial  page.  General  Howard  Carroll 
was  editor-in-chief,  John  W.  Keller  managing  editor. 
My  first  Sunday  editor  was  Julius  Chambers,  formerly  of 
The  Herald  and  now  with  The  Brooklyn  Eagle;  my  second 
was  Winfield  Scott  Moody,  later  the  editor  of  The  Lamp, 
a  literary  monthly  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Mr.  Moody,  who  is  now  in  the  editorial  department  of 
The  Evening  Sun,  is  the  husband  of  that  pioneer  in 
women's  journalism,  Helen  Watterson  Moody,  author  of 
The  Unquiet  Sex  (gorgeous  title).  At  the  suggestion  of 
W.  J.  Henderson,  John  W.  Keller  engaged  me  as  music- 
critic  on  the  newly  founded  journal.  Then  I  became 


NEWSPAPER   EXPERIENCES 


chums  with  Harry  Neagle,  dramatic  editor,  who  planned 
and  conducted  the  daily  column  to  which  I  contributed. 
Neagle  roved  about  the  theatre  district  and  captured  the 
good  stories.  I  did  much  of  the  writing.  The  depart 
ment  was  called  "The  Prompter."  It  was  not  the  first 
of  its  kind,  for  Alan  Dale  wrote  a  daily  column  in  The 
Evening  World;  but  "The  Prompter"  was  full  of  life  and 
made  readers.  Those  were  the  flush  times  of  theatrical 
weeklies.  Editors  punched  each  other,  wrote  terrific  in 
sults,  and  started  libel  suits,  which  usually  ended  before 
the  bar — but  not  of  justice.  Charles  Alfred  Byrne,  after 
an  exciting  career  as  editor  of  The  Dramatic  News  and 
Truth,  was  dramatic  critic  of  The  Morning  Journal,  then 
edited,  and  ably,  by  Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke,  Irish  poet  and 
patriot,  Byrne  had  a  positive  genius  for  getting  in  and 
out  of  scrapes  with  men  and  women.  He  was  a  pictur 
esque  Irishman,  who  had  been  educated  in  Belgium,  and 
his  knowledge  of  the  French  language  and  dramatic  lit 
erature  enabled  him  to  "import"  some  ideas  for  his  pro 
ductions.  Dion  Boucicault  turned  the  same  trick  more 
profitably;  indeed,  some  of  that  remarkable  man's  "adap 
tations"  were  as  good,  if  not  better,  than  the  originals. 
Byrne  was  a  born  fighter.  The  up-town  Recorder  dra 
matic  office  was  next  to  Daly's  Theatre,  and  Byrne  and 
Neagle  had  desks  in  the  same  room.  Thither  I  repaired 
every  afternoon  from  The  Musical  Courier,  then  at  No. 
19  Union  Square. 

One  day  Byrne  and  Joe  Arthur,  the  playwright,  quar 
relled,  and  agreed  to  fight  to  the  finish;  but  I'm  not 
certain  as  to  the  battle-field,  as  I  wasn't  present.  I 
think  that  Harry  Neagle  was  bottleholder.  Byrne  re 
turned  to  the  office  in  a  bad  condition,  both  eyes  black 
and  blinking,  but  his  Celtic  spirit  was  undaunted.  "You 


QO  STEEPLEJACK 

ought  to  see  poor  Joe,"  he  cried  to  me.  Arthur  looked 
all  right  when  I  saw  him  the  next  day;  he  made  the 
usual  formal  call  of  condolence.  There  was  no  bad  blood 
between  the  men,  though  Byrne  had  been  badly  whipped 
in  the  encounter.  Leander  Richardson  was  another  mili 
tant  editor.  He  is  said  to  have  knocked  out  the  irre 
sistible  John  L.  Sullivan  in  a  bar-room  brawl,  though 
Sullivan  must  have  been  under  the  alcoholic  weather. 
Richardson  was  a  powerful  man,  a  bruiser,  and  would 
have  proved  a  formidable  opponent  at  any  time.  He 
edited  The  Dramatic  News,  and  his  editorial  notes  were 
racy.  I  saw  him  attack  John  T.  Sullivan  in  the  lobby 
of  the  old  Madison  Square  Theatre,  then  managed 
by  Frank  McKee  for  Charles  Hoyt,  the  playwright. 
Sullivan,  an  amiable  actor,  was  the  husband  of  Rose 
Coghlan.  That  same  night  Leander  Richardson,  who 
was  looking  for  trouble,  found  it  in  the  person  of  Louis 
Massen  and  was  thrashed  in  the  cafe  of  the  Knicker 
bocker  Theatre,  then  called  Abbey's.  But  he  was  about 
next  day,  alert  and  smiling.  Harrison  Grey  Fiske, 
husband  of  Minnie  Maddern,  vivacious  in  soubrette 
roles,  later  the  serious  Mrs.  Fiske  of  Ibsen  fame,  was 
editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Dramatic  Mirror.  I  men 
tion  all  this  to  show  you  that  in  the  theatrical  world  con 
ditions  were  worse  than  in  the  musical.  Ugly  phrases, 
such  as  "blackmail"  and  "revolver-press"  were  freely 
used.  Not  edifying,  these  rows,  but  typical. 

Vance  Thompson  was  dramatic  and  literary  critic  on 
The  Commercial  Advertiser,  and  he  introduced  me  to 
Foster  Coates,  the  editor.  As  The  Recorder  had  gone 
the  way  of  all  mishandled  enterprises  I  was  glad  to  be 
come  dramatic  and  music-critic  of  The  Morning  Adver 
tiser  at  what  seemed  a  fabulous  salary,  $75  a  week;  this, 


JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 

(1890) 


NEWSPAPER   EXPERIENCES  91 

with  my  stipendium  from  The  Musical  Courier,  enabled 
me  to  live  luxuriously  and  work  like  a  dog.  Many  were 
the  sentimental  abysses  into  which  I  peered,  many  the 
angry,  tearful  partings — why  angry,  why  tearful,  I  can't 
say  now.  Why  young  people  take  such  things  seriously, 
I  wonder.  I  also  wondered  why  The  Morning  Advertiser, 
which  was  in  a  palpably  decrepit  condition,  paid  me  such 
a  high  salary.  To  be  sure,  I  was  working  double-tides, 
driving  two  or  three  horses  abreast,  as  Daniel  Frohman 
said  to  me.  I  was  both  dramatic  and  musical  critic  and 
still  found  time  to  write  for  Town  Topics,  Vanity  Fair, 
and  The  Courier.  No  bed-spring-chicken  I,  but  a  hustler. 
I  had  to  be.  There  were  other  mouths  to  feed,  and  to 
use  the  expression  of  Vance  Thompson,  the  mortgages 
were  so  tame  that  they  fed  from  my  hand.  And  a  tame 
mortgage  is  more  dangerous  than  a  wild;  it  gets  too 
familiar  by  half.  And  then  a  man  must  pay  alimony  to 
his  divorced  ideals.  "Ain't  it  fatuous, "  as  the  old  lady 
said  when  she  first  saw  a  hippopotamus.  I  was  fatuous 
in  my  belief  that  I  could  succeed  where  others  fail,  just 
as  later  it  took  the  writing  of  fifteen  books,  not  only  to 
get  my  hand  in — Balzac's  phrase — but  also  to  get  my 
hand  out.  One  day  the  office  'phoned  me;  good  old 
Major  Clowes  it  was  who  told  me  that  I  needn't  come 
down-town,  there  was  no  longer  a  Morning  Advertiser. 
Mr.  Hearst  had  bought  it  for  the  Associated  Press  fran 
chise  and  paid,  so  it  was  said,  $600,000  for  the  privilege. 
That  accounted  for  the  altitude  of  my  salary.  Behold 
me,  with  only  two  or  three  positions  to  fill.  I  filled  them, 
yet  longed  for  new  worlds  to  conquer.  On  The  Recorder 
the  work  had  been  severe,  on  The  Advertiser  much  lighter. 
I  didn't  care.  Scribbling  came  easy,  and  as  I  had  no  sol 
emn  "message"  to  deliver  to  an  expectant  world,  I 


92  STEEPLEJACK 


sunned  myself  on  the  right  side  of  the  street  and  took 
little  heed  of  the  future. 

George  Washington  Turner,  the  manager  of  The  Re- 
corder,  was  a  versatile  man.  His  energy  drove  the  ma 
chine  of  his  frail  little  body  at  too  high  a  pressure. 
Chockful  of  ideas,  he  made  the  wheels  of  his  newspaper 
hum  for  a  while.  I  shall  not  forget  the  afternoon  when, 
in  company  with  Edward  A.  MacDowell,  the  composer, 
and  brilliant  pianist,  I  went  to  the  Everett  House  on 
Union  Square — a  delightful  hostelry  kept  by  old  Mr. 
Bates,  and  where  it  stood  is  now  an  ugly  fortress  of  brick. 
G.  W.  Turner  showed  us  a  complicated  invention  of  his, 
all  spools  and  ribbons  and  wires,  a  rudimentary  forerun 
ner  of  the  self-playing  piano,  one  of  those  diabolic  un 
musical  machines  that  lend  a  new  terror  to  life.  Why 
didn't  Turner  gain  millions  from  his  idea — and  it  was 
one  of  many?  A  Yankee  genius,  his,  but  he  succeeded 
in  nothing  but  failures — to  make  an  Irish  bull. 

While  on  The  Recorder  staff  I  was  asked  by  Editor 
Keller  if  I  should  like  to  interview  Annie  Besant,  the- 
osophist,  radical  agitator,  and  at  one  time  associate  of 
Charles  Bradlaugh.  She  had  arrived  from  London  that 
morning  and  was  at  the  house  of  friends.  Fortunately, 
her  friends  were  my  friends:  Mr.  and  Mrs.  August  Nere- 
sheimer,  cultivated  and  musical  folk  with  whom  I  be 
came  acquainted  through  Max  Heinrich.  Mr.  Nere- 
sheimer  sang  Schumann  and  Brahms  with  taste  and  in 
telligence,  and  was  interested  in  the  New  Paths.  A  hard- 
headed  man  of  business  and  a  mystic.  The  conjunction 
is  not  uncommon.  I  had  taken  a  dive  into  that  shining 
pool,  whose  waters  are  so  deceptively  clear  and  deep. 
I  knew  Helena  Blavatsky  in  the  flesh,  and  I  had  read 


NEWSPAPER   EXPERIENCES  93 

some  of  the  effusions  of  Mrs.  Besant.  I  related  these 
facts  to  Mr.  Keller.  "Good!"  he  cried,  and  away  I 
went  to  the  faraway  region  of  Lenox  Avenue — there  were 
no  subways,  and  north  of  I25th  Street  seemed  the  coun 
try.  When  I  reached  the  Neresheimer  residence,  I  found 
myself  in  company  with  a  dozen  other  reporters,  one  of 
whom  quickly  informed  me  that  he  also  represented 
The  Recorder  I  was  surprised.  So  was  he  when  I  told 
him  that  Mr.  Keller  had  sent  me.  "But  there  mustn't 
be  two  stories!"  he  expostulated.  "There  won't  be," 
I  replied.  "  I'm  not  going  to  pump  Mrs.  Besant  as  to  her 
political  rows."  She  had  experienced  trouble  with  the 
British  authorities  over  birth-control  pamphlets,  and 
Bradlaugh's  religious  opinions  were  hardly  orthodox, 
though  now  they  seem  as  innocuous  as  Bob  IngersoII's. 
My  friend  pricked  up  his  ears  and  suddenly  became  con 
fidential.  "Say,"  he  whispered,  "does  she  read  your 
palm?  Cross  the  gypsy's  hand  with  silver,  eh?"  After 
that  I  didn't  bother  with  him,  and  presently  Mrs.  Nere 
sheimer  beckoned  to  me.  I  followed  her,  and  in  the 
morning  room  I  met  a  little  lady  with  a  shy  manner, 
her  soul  concentrated  in  her  eyes.  Such  latent  energy ! 
She  had  just  gone  over,  or  was  going,  to  Roman 
Catholicism,  but  of  this  she  said  little.  She  had  broken 
several  years  before  with  Madame  Blavatsky,  but  was 
interested  in  what  I  had  to  say  of  that  extraordinary 
lady. 

I  came  away  with  mixed  impressions  of  Mrs.  Besant. 
Like  Helena  Blavatsky  she  was  one  of  those  reservoirs 
of  spiritual  forces  that  nature  creates  from  time  to  time. 
She  was  almost  spirit,  a  strange  soul  shone  from  her 
eyes.  In  her  various  incarnations — in  the  earthly  plane, 
as  our  theosophical  friends  say — she  had  wavered  from 


94  STEEPLEJACK 

faith  to  faith  as  wavers  a  candle  in  the  wind.  That  she 
would  not  long  abide  in  any  house  of  the  flesh  was  written 
on  her  candid  brow.  She  soon  seceded  from  Mother 
Church  as  she  had  earlier  fled  from  the  raw  agnosticism 
of  Charles  Bradlaugh.  She  is  now,  I  hear,  a  petticoated 
Grand  Panjandrum  in  India  irradiating  the  wisdom  of 
the  ages.  She  never  possessed  the  profound  animal 
magnetism  of  Blavatsky — it  is  the  only  phrase  that  de 
scribes  her — nor  her  intellect,  nor  yet  the  firm  grasp  on 
affairs  displayed  by  the  "Purple  Mother,"  shrewd  Kath- 
erine  Tingley,  of  Point  Loma,  California.  There,  I 
think,  the  Neresheimers  are,  having  renounced  the 
world  and  all  its  pomps  to  follow  the  Inner  Light. 
When  I  had  finished  the  interview  so  graciously  accorded 
me  by  Annie  Besant,  I  found  a  grumbling  gang,  my 
associates,  impatient,  and  blaming  me  for  blocking  their 
plan;  it  was  to  be  a  joint  interview,  cried  the  chap  from 
The  Recorder  with  a  taste  for  palmistry.  I  didn't  ex 
plain.  Why  should  I  have  done  so?  If  not  an  Adept, 
was  I  not  a  Neophyte?  Shoo!  I  said,  and  to  the  office 
I  went  and  wrote  an  article  on  Theosophy  and  the  claims 
of  the  Ideal — I  capitalised  every  other  word — and  ended 
with  a  glowing  description  of  soulful  eyes.  It  was  duly 
printed.  But  my  more  practical  colleague  had  suc 
ceeded  in  coaxing  the  lady  into  definite  statements,  and 
Mr.  Keller  liked  his  interview  better  than  mine.  When 
I  explained  that  Mrs.  Besant  had  told  me  many  things 
in  confidence  the  mighty  John — he  was  a  giant — roared: 
"Then  why  the  blankety  blank  didn't  you  print  them? 
It's  the  strictly  confidential  confessions  that  the  public 
likes."  It  was  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  interviewing  that  I 
never  forgot.  Nowadays  I  print  everything. 

The  public,  as  the  late  Mr.  Barnum  insinuated,  is  fond 


NEWSPAPER   EXPERIENCES  95 

of  mystification.  Phineas  knew.  I  never  read  modern 
mystics  without  some  such  feeling.  Just  as  the  mob 
always  demands  "miracles"  so  a  certain  class  of  readers 
must  be  fed  with  oracular  phrases,  else  perish  from 
spiritual  inanition.  I  had  read,  not  without  considera 
ble  misgivings,  Isis  Unveiled — what  a  title  to  whet  the 
appetite  of  the  curious ! — and  the  Key  to  Theosophy, 
by  Helena  Blavatsky;  indeed,  these  books  are  still  in 
my  library  ranged  next  to  the  Koran  and  the  Revela 
tions  of  the  Mormon  Apostle,  Joseph  Smith.  Yet  com 
pared  with  Science  and  Health,  I  prefer  the  dark  sayings 
of  the  Russian  woman.  She,  at  least,  had  a  great  litera 
ture  to  tap,  Eastern  philosophy;  and  she  tapped  it  to  good 
purpose.  When  I  went  to  New  York  the  Theosoph- 
ical  movement  was  in  full  blast.  Like  the  dilettante 
philosophy  of  the  subtle  Bergson  in  our  day,  the  doc 
trines  of  Blavatsky  and  her  disciples  were  a  fashionable 
diversion.  Madame  Blavatsky  held  seances  in  which 
participated  society  people  and  "literati,"  the  mild  and 
hairy  authors  of  that  epoch — James  L.  Ford  called  them 
the  "Century  School" — and  avowed  mystics.  William 
Q.  Judge,  Col.  Olcott,  the  Munroes,  and  other  lumi 
naries  were  much  mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  and  we 
spoke  of  Karma  as  if  it  were  a  breakfast  food.  I  knew 
Edwin  Bjeeregaard,  Swedish  mystic  and  librarian  at  the 
Astor  Library,  then  on  Lafayette  Place  (now  Lafayette 
Street),  and  he  introduced  me  to  the  writings  of  the  Theos- 
ophists.  I  swallowed  them  all,  but  I  confess  I  found  little 
new  or  stimulating  in  them.  My  reading  in  the  Eastern 
wisdom  had  been  extensive  and  these  restatements  and 
attenuations,  modulations,  and  modern  transpositions, 
cleverly  as  they  were  fashioned,  did  not  impress  me  as  the 
"Real  Thing."  Why  not  take  the  Zend-Avesta,  or  the 


96  STEEPLEJACK 

Triple  Baskets,  unadulterated  by  Russian  mysticism? 
The  trail  of  Helena  Blavatsky  was  over  the  crystal-pure 
precepts  of  the  ancients.  But  the  woman  herself!  That 
was  another  thing.  I  visited  her  one  rainy  afternoon 
at  a  house  not  far  from  As  tor  Place.  Never  mind  how 
I  secured  my  invitation,  except  to  say  that  it  was  not 
easy  to  get  one.  She  was  only  for  the  elect.  I  have 
met  many  outlandish,  eccentric,  and  many  interesting 
people;  anarchs  of  art,  society,  literature,  but  Blavatsky 
left  the  profoundest  image  of  all  in  my  memory.  I  say, 
profound,  advisedly.  Dostoievsky  or  Joseph  Conrad, 
would  have  fathomed  her  and  painted  a  deathless  por 
trait  of  her  in  prose;  but  at  twenty-five  I  was  gullible, 
and  my  brain  whirled  with  her  cryptic  and  sonorous 
phrases — more  sound  than  sense,  I  suspect — and  I  was 
but  another  bird  lured  by  the  pipe  of  this  fowler.  She 
was  a  short,  fat  woman,  with  sensual  lips,  without  per 
sonal  distinction,  and  as  she  wore  a  turban,  I  couldn't 
make  out  plainly  her  head.  Her  eyes  !  The  eyes  !  The 
eyes !  cried  Bill  Sykes.  If  Bill  had  ever  seen  the  eyes  of 
Helena  Blavatsky  he  would  have  abandoned  burglary 
and  gone  into  retreat  at  Simla,  India,  there  to  await  his 
next  Karma.  I  think  now  of  what  Joseph  Conrad  did 
with  the  Princess  in  Under  Western  Eyes.  From  Bla 
vatsky  he  would  have  carved  another  masterpiece. 

I  have  never  but  once  seen  such  a  pair  of  orbs  in  a 
human's  head,  and  those  belong  to  Margaret  Mat- 
zenauer,  the  opera-singer.  The  eyes  of  Blavatsky  were 
not  so  radiantly  electric  as  Matzenauer's,  but  they  had 
the  same  hypnotic  effect.  They  were  slightly  glazed  as 
if  drugged  by  dreams  of  smoky  enchantments.  They 
englobed  you  in  their  slow,  wide  gaze.  I  felt  like.a  rab 
bit  in  the  jaws  of  a  boa-constrictor.  I  literally  was. 


NEWSPAPER   EXPERIENCES  97 

Fascinated,  I  watched  the  oracle  on  her  tripod  blow  circles 
of  cigarette  smoke  through  her  flattened  Kalmuck  nos 
trils.  The  room  was  dim.  There  were  divans.  Too 
many.  Exotic  odours  pervaded  the  lifeless  air.  Queen 
Helena — "she  who  must  be  obeyed" — murmured  wisdom 
which  I  gulped  without  a  word.  An  idol  enthroned. 
She  was  amiable.  She  asked  me  if  I  wrote,  and  if  I  were 
a  believer.  I  swear  that  I  could  have  believed  anything 
then,  only  to  escape  the  aura  of  intolerable  suspense  in 
the  atmosphere.  What  was  it?  The  celebrated  mes 
merism  must  have  been  at  work,  else  how  account  for 
my  rapidly  oozing  vital  force !  I  once  attended  a  Black 
Mass  in  Paris,  a  blasphemous  travesty,  stupid,  obscene, 
yet  I  did  not  feel  as  enervated  as  when  I  kissed  the  pudgy 
and  not  too  white  hand  of  Blavatsky,  and  got  into  the 
open  under  God's  blue  roof.  Pouf!  I  inhaled  huge 
breezes,  and  tried  to  forget  the  Isis  I  had  seen  Unveiled. 
If  I  remember  my  Oriental  studies  the  wisdom  of  the  East 
is  not  tainted  with  sex;  sexuality,  the  keystone  of  our 
world,  is  purified.  It  becomes  Idea.  But  Oriental 
wisdom  when  passed  through  the  sieve  of  the  Occident, 
takes  on  a  more  earthly  aspect;  it  is  even  fleshy. 
I  had  expected  astral  messages,  showers  of  roses 
from  the  ceiling,  the  mango  and  rope-ladder  miracles, 
perhaps  levitations.  But  nothing  happened  except  that 
Helena  Blavatsky  gazed  at  me  with  her  sombre,  fanatical 
gaze,  and  my  foot  slipped  at  the  edge  of  her  optical  pool 
and  I  fell  into  the  crystal-clear  lake  of  wisdom,  which 
was  Nirvana,  and  I  lived  a  trillion  aeons  until  the  Greek 
Kalends,  and,  the  great  bell  of  destiny  sounding  through 
the  Corridor  of  Time,  I  awoke  on  Astor  Place,  rubbing 
my  eyes  and  wondering  whether  it  hadn't  been  a  night 
mare.  Maya  !  The  Mother  of  Illusion  !  But  her  eyes, 


98  STEEPLEJACK 

the  eyes  of  this  prophetess  of  esoteric  tidings !  What  of 
her  eyes  ?  They  weren't  dreamed !  Whenever  I  smell 
a  Russian  cigarette  I  recall  her  eyes.  She  smoked  day 
and  night  and  I  can't  remember  a  word  she  said  to  me. 
I  should  make  a  grand  theosophist,  shouldn't  I? 


XI 
MONTSALVAT 

A  few  years  later  another  strange  adventure  befell  me. 
It's  a  queer  yarn,  but  it's  true.  As  it  is  in  the  same  key 
of  the  pseudo-mystic,  I'll  tell  it  now.  We  were  sitting, 
my  friend  and  I,  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  old  Vienna 
Cafe.  The  long  apartment  was  almost  deserted;  it  was 
too  late  for  luncheon,  too  early  for  tea.  In  a  corner  were 
Anton  SeidI  and  Dr.  Antonin  Dvorak,  their  heads  bent 
over  a  manuscript  score;  the  Slavic  conductor  was  show 
ing  the  Hungarian  conductor  the  music  of  his  "  New  World 
Symphony."  Happy  folk !  thought  I.  They  have  an 
interest  in  life,  while  here  is  Oswald,  one  of  the  greatest 
violinists,  an  unhappy,  sulking  wretch,  and  for  no  pos 
sible  reason  that  I  could  discover.  When  he  had  reached 
the  age  of  seven,  his  passion  for  the  violin  was  so  strong 
that  he  was  allowed  to  have  his  way,  and  the  schooling 
the  lad  received  was  mostly  on  four  strings.  Five  years 
later  he  attracted  the  attention  of  some  wealthy  amateurs 
and  was  sent  abroad.  Another  five  years  and  Oswald 
had  become  the  favourite  pupil  of  Joachim,  and  was 
hailed  as  the  successor  to  Wieniawski.  Never  had  there 
been  such  brilliant,  daring  talent,  seldom  such  an  interest 
ing  personality.  In  his  play  there  was  the  tenderness  of 
woman,  and  the  fire  of  hell.  His  technique  was  supreme, 
and  when  he  returned  to  New  York,  his  audiences  went 
mad  over  him.  I  say  mad,  because  I  saw  the  madness. 
It  was  Paderewskian.  It  was  Jascha  Heifetzian.  I  was 
an  old  friend  and  his  handsome  face  glowed  when  I 

99 


ioo  STEEPLEJACK 

called  at  his  hotel  in  my  capacity  of  music  reporter. 
Oswald  was  a  man  who  never  drank.  His  one  dissipa 
tion  was  coffee.  He  smoked  cigarettes,  but  not  furiously. 
The  women  who  sought  him  were  treated  with  distin 
guished  courtesy,  but  he  contrived  to  evade  entangle 
ments.  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  in  love.  Then  came 
the  change.  At  first  I  noticed  it  in  his  playing.  At  the 
last  Boston  Symphony  Concert  in  Steinway  Hall  he  had 
interpreted  the  Brahms  Concerto  in  a  listless,  tepid  man 
ner,  and  his  phrasing  was  not  faultless.  It  was  the  ab 
sence  of  the  inner  spirit,  the  fire,  that  set  buzzing  critics 
and  public.  What  ailed  the  man?  Was  he  worn  out 
by  the  labours  of  a  strenuous  musical  season?  I  sus 
pected  a  reason  more  dangerous.  After  months  of  de 
spondencies  and  disappearances,  I  had  caught  him  at  the 
Vienna  Cafe,  and  put  the  question  to  him. 

He  impatiently  pushed  aside  his  coffee.  "Of  course, 
if  you  will  insist  on  preaching,  I  must  leave  you.  It's  a 
new  role  for  you."  "Oswald,  you  needn't  take  me  up 
that  way.  I'm  not  preaching,  I'm  playing  the  part  of  a 
friend  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  and—  "The  only  kind 
you  can  play,"  he  interrupted.  "That's  right,  my  boy. 
Flaunt  your  virtuosity  under  my  nose.  I'm  not  a  bull 
when  I  see  red."  "Go  on,"  he  answered  in  a  resigned 
manner,  reconsidering  his  rejected  coffee.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Oswald?  Come,  be  frank  with  me! 
You  haven't  touched  your  fiddle  for  months.  You  don't 
show  yourself  to  your  friends.  Are  you  in  debt,  are  you 
in  trouble,  are  you  in  love?  Stop  a  moment — :>  for  he 
had  begun  to  scowl — "I  don't  wish  to  pry  into  your  pri 
vate  affairs,  but  you  owe  your  most  intimate  friend  some 
sort  of  explanation  as  to  your  odd  behaviour,  besides, 
old  man,  you  are  looking  very  bad.  Your  skin  is  like 


MONTSALVAT  101 


the  Yellow  Book,  and  your  expression  suggests  Aubrey 
Beardsley's  most  morbid  manner."  I  stopped  for  want 
of  breath.  Oswald  smiled,  rather  contemptuously,  at 
my  stale  similes,  but  held  his  peace  and  drank  his  coffee, 
ordered  a  fresh  one,  and  over  the  third  cup  he  brightened 
and  slowly  rolled  a  cigarette.  I  watched  him.  His  face 
looked  worn  and  wan,  his  colour  was  leaden,  and  his  eyes 
lacked  intensity.  His  handsome  nose,  purely  Greek  in 
line,  was  pinched,  his  mop  of  curls  disordered.  Evi 
dently  he  had  been  having  a  hard  time;  but  his  was  no 
common  form  of  dissipation.  At  last,  rousing  himself, 
he  gazed  at  me,  almost  piteously.  It  was  the  silent  cry 
of  a  man  going  under,  the  cry  of  a  man  whom  none  could 
save.  Involuntarily  I  caught  at  his  arm;  so  unpremedi 
tated  was  it,  and  he  so  easily  read  the  meaning  of  the 
gesture  that  he  turned  away  his  head.  For  some  minutes 
the  silence  lay  thickly  upon  us,  then  I  spoke  to  the 
stricken  man:  "Your  face  recalls  to  me  one  of  those 
damned  souls  that  Dante,  the  dreamer  of  accurst  visions, 
met  midway  in  his  mortal  life."  "And  I  am  a  damned, 
irrevocably  lost  soul,  and  because  of  my  own  perverse 
temperament.  Why  does  music  lead  us  into  such  black 
alleys — My  God!  Why?"  He  was  keyed  up  to  a 
dangerous  pitch,  I  forebore  further  questioning.  We 
aimlessly  drifted  out  of  the  cafe  and,  I  going  towards 
theatre-land,  we  separated  for  the  night. 

Naturally,  I  thought  much  about  Oswald.  Evil  he  was 
not.  There  was  no  love-affair.  The  idea  of  hypnotic 
obsession  suggested  itself,  but  was  at  once  dismissed. 
The  curious  part  of  the  affair  was  his  refusal  to  play  either 
in  private  or  in  public.  He  never  went  to  concerts  and 
had  an  absolute  horror  of  music.  Long  absences  from  his 
house  alarmed  me.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  some  one 


102  STEEPLEJACK 


was  leading  him  astray.  I  determined  to  find  out. 
Several  months  after  our  meeting  at  the  cafe  I  met  him 
again.  He  was  gaunt,  yellow,  almost  shabby.  Another 
solution  of  the  problem  presented  itself;  perhaps,  like 
other  ardent  temperaments,  he  had  tasted  of  that  deadly 
drug  admired  of  the  Chinese.  A  drug  eater!  I  taxed 
him  with  it.  As  we  slowly  walked  down-town  we  had 
stopped  under  an  electric  light;  it  was  a  dismal  Novem 
ber  night,  a  night  of  mists  and  shadows.  Oswald  spoke, 
faintly:  "You  accuse  me  of  the  opium  habit.  If  I  were 
a  victim,  I  would  be  a  thrice-blessed  man.  Alas !  It  is 
much  worse." 

Completely  mystified,  I  took  the  arm  of  the  unfortunate 
violinist  in  mine,  for  he  seemed  feeble,  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  eaten  that  day.  He  nodded.  I  did  not  believe 
him.  We  left  Union  Square  behind  us  and  soon  reached 
Astor  Place.  I  clung  to  him  and  only  when  we  turned 
down  the  long,  dark  street,  where  the  library  then  stood, 
did  I  notice  our  whereabouts.  My  companion  moved 
with  the  air  of  a  man  to  whom  things  corporeal  no  longer 
had  meaning.  When  we  arrived  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
ill-lighted  avenue,  I  called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that 
we  were  drifting  into  strange  quarters.  He  gave  me  a 
sharp  glance,  seized  my  elbow  and  guided  me  up  the  steps 
of  a  low  building  in  semi-obscurity.  He  did  not  ring, 
but  rapped  with  something  metallic;  at  once  the  door 
was  opened,  and  I  saw  a  hallway  filled  with  the  violent 
rays  of  a  lamp.  I  experienced  a  repugnance  to  the 
place.  I  would  have  gone  away  but  Oswald  barred  the 
passage,  regarding  me  with  such  sad  eyes  that  I  seemed 
to  be  dealing  with  a  deranged  man.  "Welcome!"  he 
said,  "welcome  to  Montsalvat."  Then  I  noticed  over  the 
door  an  incomprehensible  musical  motto,  which  I  did  not 


MONTSALVAT  103 


at  first  recognise.  But  I  followed  my  friend  into  a  com 
fortable  library  warmed  by  a  fireplace,  in  which  hissed 
and  crumbled  huge  lumps  of  cannel  coal.  In  all  faith,  I 
had  to  confess  that  the  apartment  was  homelike,  though 
the  tragic  expression  of  Oswald  recalled  to  me  that 
I  might  discover  his  tormenting  secret.  "And  what," 
said  I,  sitting  down  and  lighting  a  cigar,  "is  Montsalvat? 
And  what  in  the  name  of  all  that's  fantastic  means  the 
fearsome  motto  over  the  door?  Is  this  a  suicide  club, 
or  is  it  some  new-fangled  aesthetic  organisation  where 
intense  young  men  say  sweet  things  about  art?  Or  is  it 
a  singing  society,  or" — and  here  the  humour  of  the  situa 
tion  broke  in  on  me — "mayhap  it  is  a  secret  college  of 
organists  wherein  pedal  practice  may  be  continued  dur 
ing  late  hours,  without  arousing  refractory  neighbours?" 
Oswald,  with  his  glance  of  anxious  rectitude,  did  not  smile 
at  my  foolish  speech.  "Montsalvat  is  not  any  of  those 
things,"  he  softly  replied.  "True,  it  is  a  club  which  oc 
casionally  meets,  but  not  for  recreation  or  discussion. 
You  have  read  the  poet,  Baudelaire,  have  you  not,  dear 
friend?  Then  you  may  remember  those  profound  lines 
beginning: '  J'ai  vu  parfois  au  fond  d'un  theatre  banal  .  .  . 
une  fee  allumer  dans  un  ciel  infernal.  ..."  "It  sounds 
like  Poe  done  into  French,"  said  I,  wondering  at  Oswald's 
suppressed  excitement;  "like  a  more  malign  Poe.  John 
Martin,  the  English  mezzotinter,  could  have  translated 
this  poem  of  sombre  bronze  into  his  art  of  black  and  white 
—you,  yourself,  Oswald,  remind  me  of  that  artist's  vis 
ion,  'Sadak  Seeking  the  Waters  of  Oblivion."  I  felt 
I  was  talking  for  effect.  His  actions  puzzled  me.  Why 
in  this  lonely  house  should  he  become  emotional  over  a 
verse  of  Baudelaire?  Why  should  the  Redemption  theme 
from  "Parsifal"  be  placed  across  the  door-top?  (I  had 


io4  STEEPLEJACK 

recognised  the  music.)     Suddenly  voices  aroused  him, 
and  he  started  up,  crying:  "They  are  here!" 

Folding  doors,  heavily  draped  by  black  velvet,  were 
pushed  asunder,  and  I  found  myself  staring  about  me  in 
a  large  chamber  with  a  low  ceiling.  There  were  no  pic 
tures,  two  busts  were  in  a  recess  and  seemed  to  regard 
with  malevolent  expression  the  assemblage.  I  noticed 
that  they  were  plaster  heads  of  Arthur  Schopenhauer  and 
Richard  Wagner.  Conversation  was  languidly  progress 
ing.  We  sat,  Oswald  and  I,  in  a  corner.  No  one  paid 
attention  to  us.  I  studied  the  people  about  me.  They 
were  the  faces  of  cultured  men,  a  few  dissipated,  but  the 
majority  were  those  of  dreamers,  men  for  whom  the 
world  had  proved  too  strong,  men  who  were  striving  to 
forget.  I  saw  several  musicians,  one  poet,  a  half-dozen 
painters.  No  evidence  of  opium  was  to  be  seen,  no  one 
drank,  all  smoked.  As  we  entered  Chopin's  name  had 
been  mentioned,  and  a  big,  lazy,  blond  fellow  said: 
"Oh !  Chopin.  We  are,  I  hope,  beyond  Chopin  or  Poe. 
Debussy  is  our  music-maker  now — as  Browning  did  not 
say."  "Why?"  asked  a  pianist.  "Why  have  we  got 
beyond  Chopin?  For  me  the  Pole  has  an  invincible 
charm."  "That's  because  you  are  a  pianist,"  came  the 
retort.  "You  know  I  never  play  any  more,"  was  the 
sulky  rejoinder.  For  a  time  the  conversation  halted. 
"What  does  it  all  mean?"  I  whispered.  Oswald  shook 
his  head. 

"  Montsalvat,  my  friends,"  said  a  grave,  measured 
voice,  "is  the  ultimate  refuge  for  souls  resolved  to  abjure 
the  illusion  of  happiness.  Our  illustrious  masters  and 
inspirers,  Schopenhauer  and  Wagner,  declared  that  only 
the  saint  and  the  artist  may  attain  to  Nirvana  in  this 


MONTSALVAT  105 


life.  But  we  hold  that  the  artist  is  ever  the  victim  of 
the  Life-Lie,  of  the  World-Illusion.  Wagner,  when  he 
wrote  'Parsifal,'  revealed  his  hatred  of  art,  of  the  very 
root  of  life.  Full  well  he  knew  the  evils  brought  into  this 
world  by  music,  by  sex.  Immobility,  the  supreme  ab 
negation  of  the  will,  the  absolute  suppression  of  the  pas 
sions — better,  the  state  of  non-existence — are  they  not 
worthy  of  attainment?  To  live  in  the  Idea!  Ah!  my 
friends,  I  fear  that  we  are  still  too  worldly,  that  we  will 
stamp  with  too  much  vehemence  on  our  inner  nature; 
renounce  thou  shalt,  shalt  renounce!  Surely  by  this 
time  we  should  have  attained  psychic  freedom.  Oh !  for 
a  cenobite's  life.  Oh !  for  a  crust  and  a  hut  in  some  vast 
wilderness !  The  blood  burns  hotly  in  cities,  life  thrusts 
its  multi-coloured  grin  upon  you  there;  you  cannot  es 
cape  it.  To  live  on  one  tone,  yourself  to  be  the  pedal- 
point  over  which  life's  jangling  harmonies  pass  your 
soul-suspension — to  do  this  is  to  live,  not  play,  music; 
to  do  as  did  the  Knights  of  Montsalvat — that  is  existence. 
Wagner  knew  it  when  he  created  his  'Parsifal,'  for  all 
Time  a  perfect  mirror  of  the  souls  of  pure  men  who  re 
volted  at  the  banality  of  quotidian  life.  A  new  mo 
nastic  ideal  is  our  Modern  Montsalvat."  In  wonder  I 
gazed  at  the  speaker,  not  a  hoary-headed  Pundit,  but  a 
youth  of  perhaps  twenty-five  summers.  His  strained 
expression,  his  sunken  cheeks,  lent  him  a  detached,  even 
fantastic  appearance.  In  what  manner  of  company 
was  I?  What  the  aims  of  this  strange  crew?  Men  in 
the  heat  and  prime  of  their  youth  discoursing  Schopen 
hauer,  Wagner,  Chopin,  Verlaine,  as  if  the  last  keen  joy 
were  a  denial  of  self  almost  depraved.  I  was  bewildered. 
The  voice  of  Oswald  broke  in:  "J'aime  les  nuages  .  .  . 
les  merveilleux  nuages."  "  There  you  go  again  with 


STEEPLEJACK 


your  Baudelaire  !"  cried  some  one.  "Oswald,  I  fear  that 
you  still  love  life.  It's  consuming  you.  You  delight  in 
reciting  verses  beginning:  'J'aime.'  You  have  no  right 
to  love  anything,  not  even  dream-tipped  Baudelairian 
clouds.  I  suspect  that  you  still  yearn  for  your  fiddle,  and 
read  that  apostle  of  damnable  Titanism,  Nietzsche." 
At  the  name  of  the  arch-heretic  of  brutal  force,  of  bar 
baric  energy,  the  others  shuddered. 

Oswald  seemed  crushed.  The  voice  of  the  new  speaker 
was  toneless  and  depressing.  I  felt  mentally  nauseated. 
What  club  of  hopeless  wretches  had  I  encountered? 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  when  he  invented  his  Suicide 
Club,  had  apparently  reached  the  bottom  of  the  vicious. 
But  here  was  something  more  infernal,  a  darker  nuance 
of  pain,  a  club  of  moral  suicides  living,  yet  dead;  slaugh 
terers  of  their  own  souls;  men  who  deliberately  withdrew 
from  all  commerce  with  the  world;  men  who  abandoned 
their  ambitions,  successes,  friends,  families,  to  plunge 
beyond  hope  of  redemption  into  a  Satanic  apathy,  a 
slavery  worse  than  drugs;  yet  gleaning  a  fearful  and  ex 
quisite  joy  in  the  abstention  from  joys;  an  intellectual 
debasement,  a  slow  strangling  of  the  will,  coupled  with 
the  sadistic  delight  that  comes  in  dallying  on  the  for 
bidden  edge  of  pain  and  pleasure.  Morose  delectation 
is  the  precise  name  given  to  this  lustless  lust  by  wise 
Mother  Church,  greatest  of  psychologists.  Surely  Bud 
dhism  in  its  birthplace,  cannot  work  such  evil  as  I  saw 
before  me.  These  men  had  not  the  absorbed  air  of  de- 
voutness  and  interior  exaltation  I  have  caught  on  the 
faces  of  certain  East  Indians.  Nor  were  they  lotus- 
eaters.  Eastern  mysticism  grafted  on  Western  faiths 
may  result  unfavourably.  In  the  weary  faces  around  me, 
in  the  agonised  eyes  of  Oswald  I  saw  the  hopelessness  of 


MONTSALVAT  107 


such  moral  transplanting.  Oswald  was  dying  by  infini 
tesimal  degrees,  dying  withal.  His  violin  was  his  life. 
His  music  was  dammed  up  in  him.  The  struggle  against 
his  deepest  instincts  was  an  unequal  one;  he  must  go 
mad,  or  perish.  And  these  men  enjoyed  the  spectacle 
of  his  ruin.  To  their  jaded  brains  his  pitiable  condition 
was  as  absinthe.  They  were  Manicheans.  They  wor 
shipped  Satan ;  saying,  Evil  be  thou  my  Good !  Oswald 
with  his  youth,  his  genius,  his  once  brilliant  career,  had 
been  drawn  into  this  maelstrom  of  Nothingness.  "His 
life,"  I  thought,  "his  life  has  not  yet  been  lived,  he  is 
not  ruined  in  body,  his  soul  is  not  yet  a  thing  of  dust  and 
darkness  like  the  others.  What  a  sacrifice  is  his  I"  My 
face  must  have  been  an  index  of  my  agitation,  for  the 
same  voice  sardonically  continued: — 

"Oswald,  I  fear,  has  a  Philistine  with  him  to-night. 
Oswald  cannot  break  from  earthly  ties.  My  dear  vio 
linist,  you  had  better  return  to  your  Bohemia,  with  its 
laughter,  its  wine,  its  silly  women,  and  to  your  fiddle, 
with  its  four  mewing  strings.  Such  toys  are  for  boys, 
the  illusion  of  love,  women's  soft  bodies,  and  other  gross 
nudities.  Return,  Oswald,  with  your  friend  to  your  old 
life.  Make  empty,  useless  noises,  call  them  art,  and 
forget  the  lofty  heights  of  serene  speculation,  the  pure, 
ravishing  vision  of  a  will  subdued.  Go,  Oswald,  and  do 
not  remember  the  Life  Contemplative  or  Montsalvat 
and  its  Knights  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail  of  Renuncia 
tion.  Instead,  go  join  the  modulating  crowd."  The 
voice  grew  more  silvery,  but  it  pleaded  as  it  menaced. 
In  the  hazy  atmosphere  I  saw  with  apprehension  the 
altered  expression  of  my  poor  friend.  His  eyes  closed, 
accentuating  the  violet  bruises  beneath  them,  his  body 
became  rigid.  A  living  corpse,  he  only  obeyed  the  will 


io8  STEEPLEJACK 

of  the  Master.  With  an  effort  he  roused  himself,  and 
taking  me  by  the  arm,  muttered:  "Come!"  Silently 
we  walked  through  the  library  and  into  the  hall.  The 
busts  were  more  malevolent  than  before.  The  street 
door  was  opened  for  us,  but  I  alone  went  into  the  mist 
and  darkness. 

"The  waters  of  the  river  have  a  saffron  and  a  sickly 
hue;  and  they  flow  not  onward  to  the  sea,  but  palpitate 
forever  and  forever  beneath  the  red  eye  of  the  sun  with 
a  tumultuous  and  convulsive  motion.  For  many  miles 
on  either  side  of  the  river's  oozy  bed  is  a  pale  desert  of 
gigantic  water-lilies.  They  sigh  one  unto  the  other  in 
that  solitude,  and  stretch  towards  the  heaven  their  long 
and  ghastly  necks,  and  nod  to  and  fro  their  everlasting 
heads.  And  there  is  an  indistinct  murmur  which  cometh 
out  from  among  them  like  the  rushing  of  subterrene 
water.  And  they  sigh  one  unto  the  other."  Edgar  Poe 
wrote  that  in  his  "Silence."  Poe,  too,  had  tarried  in  the 
House  of  the  Ineffectual.  Oswald,  I  never  saw  again. 
His  case  is  an  image  of  the  sinister  consequences  of  uni 
versal  egoism,  so  powerfully  expressed  in  the  lines  of  the 
French  poet,  Alfred  de  Vigny:  "Bientot,  se  retirant  dans 
un  hideux  royaume,  la  femme  aura  Gomorrhe  et  Phomme 
aura  Sodome;  Et  se  jetant  de  loin  un  regard  irrite,  les 
deux  sexes  mourront  chacun  de  leur  cote  , 


XII 
I  AM  A  FREE-LANCE 

It  was  at  the  invitation  of  Paul  Dana  that  I  joined 
the  staff  of  the  New  York  Sun  in  1900.  There  was 
no  music-critic,  and  Mr.  Chester  S.  Lord  had  read  my 
Chopin,  hence  the  engagement.  The  great  race  of  edi 
tors  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  Charles  A.  Dana,  the  noblest 
Roman  of  them  all,  was  dead  about  three  years  when  I 
had  the  luck  to  become  an  humble  member  of  the  insti 
tution  created  by  him.  I  remained  with  The  Sun  fifteen 
years,  writing  for  it  until  April,  1917,  when  our  entrance 
into  the  war  automatically  stopped  discussion  of  aesthetics. 
I  was  away  several  years  in  Europe,  so  I  can  claim  a 
connection  of  fifteen  years.  For  the  columns  I  wrote 
musical,  dramatic,  art,  and  literary  criticism.  I  wrote 
editorials,  and  for  years  I  was  on  the  much  envied  edi 
torial  page  with  articles  principally  on  art,  but  often 
every  other  subject  under  the  heavens  save  politics.  I 
fenced  with  William  James  at  the  time  pragmatism  was 
spelled  with  a  capital  "P."  He  did  me  the  honour  of 
writing  me  most  interesting  letters  on  the  subject,  which 
letters  are  now  in  the  possession  of  his  son,  Henry  James, 
and  probably  will  be  published  when  Mr.  James  has  the 
leisure  to  give  us  his  long-expected  study  on  his  great 
father.  I  also  attacked  single-handed  that  subtle  sophist, 
Henri  Bergson,  who  was  called  by  me  "The  Playboy  of 
the  Western  World."  But  my  proudest  day  on  The 

Sun  was  when  I  had  five  columns  in  one  day  on  its  edi- 

109 


i  io  STEEPLEJACK 

to  rial  page.  That  was  a  "stunt."  If  I  may  recall  them, 
they  were  devoted  to  a  study  of  Botticelli  seen  with  mod 
ern  eyes,  a  story  of  the  Emma  Bovary,  the  real  name  of 
the  unhappy  heroine  and  her  village  being  given,  and  the 
sources  from  which  Flaubert  drew  his  immortal  portrait; 
finally  a  column  devoted  to  the  genius  of  Rodin,  the 
French  sculptor.  When  Franklin  Fyles,  for  years  dra 
matic  editor,  became  ill,  I  took  his  position,  and  not 
without  misgivings.  But  my  first  assignment  was  the 
reappearance  of  Eleanora  Duse  in  the  D'Annunzio  plays, 
"La  Gioconda,"  "Francesca  da  Rimini,"  and  "La  Citta 
Morta,"  and  as  I  had  already  made  a  study  of  her  and 
knew  the  plays  in  the  original,  I  came  off  creditably 
enough;  and  then  my  six  years  of  laborious  theatrical 
apprenticeship  counted  for  something. 

But  somebody  always  was  after  my  job  on  The  Sun. 
And  I  was  too  amiable.  I  went  to  Europe,  wrote  about 
theatres  from  London  to  Budapest,  via  Paris,  Rome, 
Vienna.  When  William  M.  Laffan  bought  the  news 
paper  I  relinquished  my  position  as  dramatic  editor  to 
John  Corbin.  I  began  writing  of  art  and  succeeded  in 
pleasing  Mr.  Laffan,  himself  an  art  critic,  an  authority 
on  porcelains  and  a  collector.  At  his  suggestion  I  went 
to  Spain  for  five  months  and  saw  the  Velasquez  pictures 
at  the  Prado,  Madrid,  and  lived  to  write  a  book  about 
him  and  other  "moderns" — Velasquez  is  still  the  most 
modern  of  all  painters.  A  man  of  force  and  enamelled 
with  prejudices,  Mr.  Laffan  had  his  likes  and  dislikes, 
usually  violent.  After  a  study  of  George  Woodward 
Wickersham  had  appeared  on  the  editorial  page — I  think 
I  called  it  a  cabinet  picture  because  Mr.  Wickersham  had 
just  become  Attorney-General  in  President  Taft's  Cab 
inet — Mr.  Laffan  sent  for  me  and  I  expected  a  raking, 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  in 

but  it  was  quite  otherwise.  While  in  Paris  I  wrote  for 
him  a  review  of  an  Independent  Salon,  and  a  few  months 
later  on  my  return  a  notice  of  the  Comparative  Exhibi 
tion  at  the  Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts.  These  articles 
led  to  my  writing  art  criticism  till  1917,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  years  of  my  absence. 

Thanks  to  the  editor-in-chief,  Edward  Page  Mitchell, 
I  wrote  signed  and  unsigned  book  reviews  on  the  page 
made  famous  by  Hazeltine.  Edward  P.  Mitchell  is  an 
editor  in  a  thousand.  To  work  with  him  is  a  privilege 
and  a  pleasure.  He  always  gets  the  best  from  a  man. 
Sympathy  is  the  keynote  of  his  character.  Chester  S. 
Lord,  for  so  many  years  managing  editor,  I  knew  before 
I  wrote  for  The  Sun.  We  had  foregathered  with  Edward 
A.  Dithmar,  dramatic  critic  of  The  Times,  and  Mont 
gomery  Schuyler,  Lawrence  Reamer,  and  other  prime 
spirits  in  Perry's  old  drug  store.  Not  without  warrant 
was  Mr.  Lord  rechristened  the  "Easy  Boss."  Beloved 
by  his  "young  men,"  as  he  called  them,  though  some 
were  grey,  he  also  had  the  disagreeable  task  of  lopping- 
off  heads,  which  task  he  accomplished  in  a  humane 
manner.  I  lost  my  "official"  head  once — some  friction 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones  in  which  I  was 
ground  to  powder — and  no  executioner  could  have  been 
more  "easy";  besides,  he  knew  I  would  return.  I  was 
always  returning  to  The  Sun.  It  is  a  superstition. 
Just  to  encourage  struggling  "journalistic"  talent,  I 
may  tell  out  of  school  that  I  was  paid  the  highest  salary 
in  town  as  a  dramatic  critic,  $125  a  week,  and  I  still 
cherish  the  little  pay  envelope  on  which  I  wrote  as  Finis, 
"The  last  of  the  Mohicans."  This  was  in  1904.  But  I 
earned  much  more  when  later  I  wrote  art  criticisms,  edi 
torials,  book  reviews,  and  travel-notes  for  Mr.  Mitchell. 


ii2  STEEPLEJACK 

Those  were  the  palmy  days  when  the  handy  all-round 
man  had  his  innings.  Now  each  department  is  "stan 
dardised."  Newspapers  have  lost  their  personal  flavour. 
Huge  syndicates  have  taken  the  colour  and  character  and 
quality  from  daily  journalism.  I  am  quite  sure  that  if 
ever  a  comprehensive  history  of  The  Sun  is  written  my 
name  will  be  absent  simply  because  I  would  be  consid 
ered  a  myth,  the  figment  of  a  fantastic  imagination. 
Much  of  my  Sun  work  appeared,  duly  expanded,  in 
Iconoclasts,  Egoists,  and  Promenades. 

I  have  told  you  how  I  interviewed  Pope  Pius  X,  and 
visited  Calabria  after  the  earthquake  for  the  New  York 
Herald.  That  was  in  1905.  A  year  later,  and  for  the 
same  newspaper,  I  made  little  journeys  to  certain  eastern 
watering-places,  from  Bar  Harbor  to  Cape  May,  not 
forgetting  Newport,  Long  Branch,  and  Atlantic  City. 
As  I  had  often  visited  Ostend,  Brighton,  Scheveningen, 
Blankenberghe,  Zandvoort,  Trouville,  and  a  dozen  other 
European  vacation  beaches,  I  had  opportunities  to  make 
comparisons.  I  made  them,  wondering  why,  despite  the 
millions  annually  spent  "over  here,"  we  have  so  little  to 
show  for  them  that  is  substantial.  Atlantic  City  is  an 
honourable  exception.  I  have  yet  to  see  its  duplicate. 
But  the  solid  stone  of  the  Brighton  and  Ostend  and 
Scheveningen  sea  promenades  we  have  not.  And  our 
cuisine.  And  the  absurd  prohibition.  Europe  is  our 
master  in  the  art  of  making  life  pleasant  at  summer  re 
sorts.  I  wrote  music  criticism  for  Town  Topics  when 
such  men  as  C.  M.  S.  McLellan,  Percival  Pollard,  Charles 
Frederic  Nirdlinger  were  making  its  columns  attractive. 
When  Nathan  Straus,  Jr.,  bought  Puck  with  the  idea  of 
transforming  it  from  a  barber-shop  comic  weekly  to  an 
artistic  revue,  I  conducted  a  page,  "The  Seven  Arts," 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  113 

but  the  times  were  not  propitious.  War  was  the  only 
interest,  and  the  arts  could  go  hang.  They  did.  Despite 
the  money  spent  on  illustrations,  Puck  did  not  fulfil  its 
new  mission,  and  was  sold  to  Mr.  Hearst  in  1917,  and  is 
now  non-existent.  For  the  New  York  Times  I  wrote  much 
in  1912  from  European  cities.  A  mania  for  travel  set  in. 
I  lived  in  London,  Paris,  Berlin,  Brussels,  Bruges,  Vienna; 
I  ate  spaghetti  in  Milan,  drank  dark  beer  in  Munich. 
I  saw  midnight  suns  and  daughters  of  the  dawn.  I 
loved  Prague  in  Bohemia,  deeming  it  a  fit  companion 
for  Toledo,  Spain;  one  of  the  most  fascinating  cities  on 
the  globe.  I  loved  Rome.  Who  doesn't?  And  found 
Venice  too  florid  and  operatic.  But  my  beloved  Holland 
and  Belgium  came  first;  especially  Bruges.  The  Low 
lands  always  appealed.  Rodin  spoke  of  the  "slow" 
landscapes  of  the  Dutch  country.  It  is  an  illuminating 
phrase.  The  grandeur  of  the  Alps  left  me  rather  un 
touched.  I  quite  appreciate  their  frosty  sublimities, 
also  feel  their  lack  of  human  interest,  The  flatlands  of 
Holland  with  their  processional  poplars,  their  silvery 
shining  network  of  canals,  the  groups  of  patient  cattle, 
egotistic  windmills,  and  the  low  friendly  skies — all  these 
went  to  my  heart  like  a  rich  warming  cordial.  The  home 
like  life,  the  treasure  houses  of  art  at  Amsterdam,  The 
Hague,  and  Haarlem,  win  the  imagination,  and  there  is 
an  abundance  of  good  music.  The  Concertgebouw  in 
Amsterdam  listens  to  symphonic  music  and  the  best  of 
European  singers  and  players  with  Willem  Mengelberg 
as  conductor,  and  a  brilliant  one  he  is.  I  had  settled  in 
1914  at  Utrecht  for  the  remainder  of  my  days  I  thought; 
but  destiny  had  something  to  say,  and  I  found  myself 
once  more  in  Manhattan.  In  the  quaint  Dutch  town  J 
vainly  sought  for  the  peace  of  Utrecht,  which  is  purely 


ii4  STEEPLEJACK 

historic,  as  it  is  for  its  size  as  noisy  as  Naples.     Rug- 
beating  there  is  raised  to  the  dignity  of  a  peace  treaty. 

I  heard  under  Conductor  Mengelberg  compositions  by 
three  Dutchwomen,  Cornelia  Van  Oosterzee,  Anna  Lasu- 
brecht  Vos,  and  Elizabeth  Kuypers,  that  gave  me  plea 
sure.  Miss  Van  Oosterzee's  symphony  is  an  "impor 
tant"  work.  With  such  a  world-renowned  genius  as 
Hugo  De  Vries  at  Amsterdam,  and  such  a  profound 
neurologist  as  Doctor  C.  U.  Ariens  Kappers,  of  the  Cen 
tral  Institute  of  Brain  Research  at  Amsterdam,  or  Pro 
fessor  Dubois,  who  discovered  in  Java  the  "missing 
link" — Pithecanthropus  Erectus — at  Amsterdam,  Hol 
land,  is  not  soon  likely  to  fall  out  of  the  fighting  line 
in  science.  I  saw  our  remote  and  distinguished  collat 
eral  at  the  Amsterdam  Museum.  He  has  been  recon 
structed  by  Dubois  and  I  confess  I've  encountered  far 
more  repulsive  specimens  among  his  human  cousins,  but 
the  Piltdown  skull  dug  up  in  England  in  1912  is  more  in 
the  key  of  Homo  Sapiens.  Thanks  to  the  courtesy  of 
Doctor  Kappers,  I  met  Hugo  De  Vries  in  his  own  "ex 
perimental  garden"  at  the  Amsterdam  Botanical  Garden 
("Hortus  Siccus"  is  the  legend  over  the  gates).  Professor 
De  Vries — he  is  a  professor  at  the  University  of  Amster 
dam — looked  very  well  after  his  long  visit  to  the  United 
States,  where  in  New  York  he  was  invited  by  President 
Butler  to  join  the  faculty  of  Columbia  College.  He 
wisely  declined  the  honour,  notwithstanding  the  horti 
cultural  temptations  of  Bronx  Park;  but,  a  canny  Dutch 
man,  he  hammered  this  offer  into  the  heads  of  the  Dutch 
Government  and  was  given  a  new  and  more  commodious 
building  in  which  to  work  out  his  famous  doctrine  of  plant 
and  flower  mutation.  He  admires  Luther  Burbank,  and 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  115 

thus  summed  up  the  difference  in  their  respective  experi 
ments:  "Burbank  crosses  species,  I  seek  to  create  new 
ones."  He  does  create  new  species,  does  this  benevolent- 
looking  Klingsor,  with  the  flowers  of  his  magic  garden. 
But  his  is  white,  not  black,  magic.  He  lets  nature  fol 
low  her  capricious  way,  giving  her  from  time  to  time  a 
hint.  A  sort  of  floral  eugenics.  I  saw  eight-leaved 
clovers  and  was  told  that  many  more  leaves  would  bud, 
as  originally  the  clover  was  a  stalk  full  of  buds.  For 
the  superstitiously  inclined  there  are  three,  four,  five,  six, 
and  seven-leaved  varieties.  The  evening  primrose  (^Eon- 
thera  lamarckiana)  was  then  the  object  of  the  De  Vries 
experiments.  Certainly  this  yellow  flower  means  more 
to  him  than  it  did  to  Wordsworth's  Peter.  The  pro 
fessor  ties  up  its  petals  in  tiny  bags,  and  thus  protected 
from  marauding  birds  and  bees,  and  no  doubt  bored  by 
solitude  (though  pistil  and  stamen  remain),  the  flower 
begins  to  put  forth  a  new  species.  I  witnessed  the 
"miracle"  of  a  half-dozen  flowers  coming  into  the  world 
that  were  not  in  existence  the  season  before.  It  reminded 
me  of  Professor  Jacques  Loeb  and  his  "creative  evolu 
tion"  with  sea-urchins. 

That  is  "creating"  life,  and  even  Sir  Oliver  Lodge 
would  give  his  assent  to  the  statement.  But  when  I 
spoke  later  in  London  to  Sir  E.  Ray  Lankester,  a  distin 
guished  disciple  of  Huxley,  and  a  hardened  Darwinian, 
he  rather  pooh-poohed  the  De  Vries  experiments.  And 
now  Professor  Henry  Fairfield  Osborn,  president  of  the 
American  Museum  of  Natural  History,  is  inclined  to 
minimise,  not  so  much  the  value  of  the  De  Vries  dis 
coveries,  but  their  philosophical  inferences.  He  writes  in 
his  magisterial  volume,  The  Origin  and  Evolution  of 
Life,  that  "the  essential  feature  of  De  Vries'  observa- 


ii6  STEEPLEJACK 

tions  ...  is  that  discontinuous  saltations  in  directions 
that  are  entirely  fortuitous  ...  a  theoretic  principle 
which  agreeing  closely  with  Darwin  .  .  .  such  mutations 
are  attributable  to  sudden  alterations  of  molecular  and 
atomic  constitution  in  the  heredity  chromatin,  or  the 
altered  forms  of  energy  supplied  to  the  chromatin  during 
development/'  (Chromatin  is  another  term  for  the 
germ-plasm  of  Weismann.)  But,  according  to  De  Vries, 
his  discovery  is  the  reverse  of  Darwin's  theory  that  evo 
lution  is  slow,  orderly,  progressive,  and  without  jumps; 
nature  never  leaps,  there  are  no  sudden  miracles.  De 
Vries  proves  the  opposite;  the  miracle  takes  place  over 
night  in  his  experiments;  nature  strikes  out  blindly, 
swiftly,  apparently  without  selection.  The  new  flower 
is  a  "constant,"  though  it  struggles  to  revert  to  its  old 
pupillaceous  state.  I  was  shown  what  he  calls  a  rosette, 
a  green  plantlike  production,  a  new  birth  of  the  com 
monplace  primrose.  In  Alabama,  Professor  De  Vries 
gathered  his  parent  flower.  He  was  interested  when  I 
told  him  that  I  had  seen  Leidy  and  Cope  at  the  Academy 
of  Natural  Sciences,  Philadelphia,  and  he  praised  their 
genius.  He  tramped  Fairmount  Park  and  knows  the 
Bronx  Botanical  Garden.  His  American  travels  and  ex 
periments  are  published  in  a  big  volume,  but  I  balk  at 
Dutch,  notwithstanding  its  relationships  to  the  German 
and  English  languages.  His  great  work  on  Mutation  is 
translated.  The  author  speaks  and  writes  English  flu 
ently  and  idiomatically.  I  was  loath  to  leave  this  man, 
who,  in  the  Indian  summer  of  his  life,  looks  like  a  bard 
and  philosopher,  summoning  strange  and  beautiful  flowers 
from  the  "vasty  deep"  of  nature.  He  is  an  exalted 
member  of  the  most  honourable  profession  in  the  world — 
a  gentle  gardener  of  genius.  Hugo  De  Vries  is  one  of 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  117 

the  few  significant  figures  in  the  history  of  science  since 
Darwin. 

A  brief  connection  with  another  journal  gave  me  much 
satisfaction,  though  less  cash  than  kudos.  It  was  The 
Weekly  Critical  Review,  devoted  to  literature,  music,  and 
the  fine  arts,  and  was  published  at  Paris.  Founded  and 
edited  by  Arthur  Bles,  a  young  Englishman  of  Dutch 
descent  (his  grandfather  was  a  Dutch  genre-painter, 
David  Bles,  but  whether  of  the  Herri  Met  de  Bles  stock, 
the  old-time  painter  with  the  white  lock  sported  Whistler 
fashion,  I  know  not)  and  far-ranging  in  his  ambition. 
The  Review  was  bi-Iingual,  and  boasted  such  contribu 
tors  as  Paul  Bourget,  Jules  Claretie,  Francois  Coppee, 
Gustave  Larroumet,  Jules  Lefebvre;  Henri  Roujon,  di 
rector  of  the  Beaux- Arts;  Alfred  Capus,  dramatist;  Ca- 
mille  Chevillard,  conductor;  Remy  de  Gourmont,  J.-K. 
Huysmans,  Hugues  Imbert,  Vincent  d'Indy,  composer; 
Charles  Malherbe,  CatuIIe  Mendes,  Auguste  Rodin, 
Tony  Robert-FIeury,  J.  H.  Rosny,  Havelock  Ellis,  Theo 
dore  Watts-Dunton,  Laurence  Housman,  Ernest  New 
man,  John  F.  Runciman,  Arthur  Symons,  and  W.  B. 
Yeats.  In  this  list  my  name  "also  ran,"  and  next  to 
that  of  Huysmans'.  Was  I  flattered !  As  I  have  al 
ready  said,  there  are  no  modest  authors.  Mine  was  the 
Higher  Snobbery,  and  I'm  not  in  the  least  ashamed  to 
admit  it.  You,  if  you  wrote,  would  be  proud  in  such 
company,  and  I  felt  "some  pumpkins"  and  exclaimed: 
"Lawks,  how  these  apples  do  swim!"  after  Huysmans 
had  addressed  me  as  "confrere."  Arthur  Bles  translated 
part  of  my  book  on  Chopin  and  it  appeared  in  the  col 
umns  of  The  Review  as  Chopin:  PHomme  et  sa  Musique, 
dedicated  to  Jules  Claretie,  director  of  the  Theatre 
Frangais.  I  was  specially  "featured"  and  my  study  of 


n8  STEEPLEJACK 

Maeterlinck's  play,  "Joyzelle,"  brought  me  letters  from 
the  poet  and  from  Huysmans  and  De  Gourmont.  This 
was  in  June,  1903.  Joris-Karel  Huysmans — his  bap 
tismal  names  were  George  Charles,  but  as  a  pen-name 
he  used  their  Dutch  equivalent — was  a  disagreeable 
man  to  interview  if  you  were  not  fortified  with  letters  of 
introduction;  even  then  he  proved  a  "difficult"  man  of 
gusty  humours.  He  was,  however,  amiable  to  me  after  I 
told  him  I  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  frowned  when  I 
said  that  I  was  not  particularly  pious.  "Mais,  mon 
cher  confrere,"  he  groaned,  "vous  etes  un  imbecile. 
Quoi?"  No  half-way  epithet  for  him.  I  admitted  my 
imbecility  and  shifted  the  subject  to  Rops,  the  etcher  of 
Satanism.  He  contemptuously  waved  the  artist  away. 
With  Maurice  Maeterlinck  it  was  different;  for  the  Bel 
gian  he  had  a  predilection,  yet  that  poet  is  not  particu 
larly  pious.  I  sometimes  suspect  the  piety  of  Huys 
mans,  unhappy  man  who  died  a  horrible  death — cancer 
in  the  throat.  But  I  never  suspect  his  sincerity,  which, 
as  Abbe  Mugnier  wrote,  is  a  form  of  his  genius.  Will 
iam  James  abominated  the  writings  of  Huysmans,  espe 
cially  En  Route,  and  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me  distinctly 
doubted  the  sincerity  of  the  Frenchman's  conversion; 
but  when  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  Huysmans,  strictly 
speaking,  was  not  "converted,"  but  had  only  returned 
to  the  faith  in  which  he  had  been  baptised,  and  when  I 
assured  him  that  not  even  St.  Augustine  or  John  Bun- 
yan,  the  saintly  tinker,  were  more  sincere,  then  Pro 
fessor  James,  with  his  accustomed  charity  to  all  varia 
tions  of  religious  belief,  acknowledged  that  the  array 
of  arguments  almost  persuaded  him.  But  the  erotic 
prepossessions  of  Huysmans  had  evidently  set  his  teeth 
on  edge.  In  the  summer  of  1896  I  attended  the  funeral 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  119 

of  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  the  last  of  the  famous  brothers. 
I  saw  contemporary  men  of  letters,  painters,  and  musi 
cians  at  the  church,  but  I  did  not  see  Paul  Verlaine,  the 
maker  of  music  as  exquisite,  as  ethereal  as  Chopin's  or 
Shelley's;  also  Paul  Verlaine,  the  poetic  "souse"  and 
lyric  deadbeat.  He  had  died  in  January  of  the  same 
year,  1896.  I  had  often  gone  to  Leon  Vanier's  book 
shop  on  the  Quai  de  Notre  Dame,  with  the  hope  of  meet 
ing  the  most  extraordinary  poetic  apparition  since  Bau 
delaire,  but  without  success.  Unsuccessful,  too,  were 
my  visits  to  the  Cafe  Francois  Premier  on  Boulevard 
St.  Michel  (usually  called  by  pasteboard  Bohemians 
of  Greenwich  Village  and  Washington  Square  "BouF 
Miche,"  because  they  never  were  near  the  establish 
ment).  I  saw,  but  not  there,  some  of  the  younger  group 
of  French  poets,  also  the  Americans  who  wrote  beautiful 
poetry  in  that  language;  Viele-Griffin,  and  Stuart  Merrill 
— who  occasionally  wrote  me  from  Forest,  near  Brussels, 
till  a  few  years  before  his  death.  But  I  never  met  Paul 
Verlaine.  Indeed,  I  may  boast  that  I  am  the  only  living 
writer  who  didn't  lend  money  to  that  poet. 

Maeterlinck's  "Joyzelle"  was  produced  at  the  Gym- 
nase — temporarily  renamed,  Theatre  Maeterlinck — in 
May,  1903.  This  "Conte  d' Amour"  had  as  heroine 
Georgette  Leblanc.  Veiling  her  temperament,  this  singer 
of  songs  of  Isolde,  of  Melisande,  became  gentle,  nai've, 
poetic;  but  she  was  also  feline  and  passionate.  A  curious 
artiste,  at  times  a  woman  who  seems  to  step  from  a  page 
of  Georges  Rodenbach,  that  exquisite  Belgian  poet,  the 
poet  laureate,  one  might  say,  of  Bruges — have  you  read 
his  "Bruges-Ia-Morte,"  with  its  Poe-Iike  legend  of  the 
dear,  dead  woman,  and  her  golden  strangling  hair? — 


120  STEEPLEJACK 

% 

and  then  she  is  metamorphosed  into  the  double  of  the 
old-time  Sarah  of  the  siren  voice.  Oddly  enough,  this 
earlier  wife  of  Maeterlinck  is  the  sister  of  Maurice  Le- 
blanc,  the  fabricator  of  the  "thrilling"  tale  of  "Arsene 
Lupin."  In  his  admirably  designed  cabinet  Maeterlinck 
gave  Arthur  Bles  and  myself  a  welcome.  He  then  lived 
on  the  Rue  Reynouard,  in  a  house  the  garden  of  which 
overlooks  the  Seine  from  the  moderate  heights  of  Passy. 
To  reach  his  apartment  we  had  to  traverse  a  twisted 
courtyard,  several  mysterious  staircases  built  on  the 
corkscrew  model,  and  finally  we  were  ushered  into  an 
antechamber  full  of  fans,  screens,  old  engravings,  orna 
mental  brass,  and  reproductions  from  pictures  by  Man- 
tegna,  Rossetti,  Burne- Jones,  and  symbolistic  painters. 
Symbolism  was  going  out,  Cubism  coming  in.  (The  King 
is  dead,  damn  the  Pretender !)  But  we  were  not  allowed 
to  abide  there.  A  maid  with  doubting  eyes  piloted  us 
across  a  narrow  hallway,  through  a  room  where  sat  a 
tirewoman  altering  theatrical  costumes,  and  at  last  we 
were  in  the  presence  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck?  Not  yet. 
Down  another  courtyard  where  he  loomed  up  in  cycling 
costume,  handsome,  grave,  cordial,  with  big  Flemish 
bones,  a  round  head,  with  wavy  hair  dappling  at  the 
temples.  Past  forty,  a  pensive  man,  he  didn't  look  like 
his  present  photograph,  for  his  mustaches  were  un- 
shaved.  He  was  older,  more  vigorous  than  I  had  pic 
tured  him.  His  head  was  that  of  a  thinker,  his  eyes 
those  of  a  dreamer.  Grey-blue,  with  hints  of  green,  they 
were  melancholy  eyes,  with  long,  dark  lashes.  He  was 
modest,  even  diffident,  but  touch  on  a  favourite  theme 
and  he  readily  reacts.  He  would  not  speak  English, 
though  he  has  all  English  literature  stored  in  his  skull. 
His  genera!  race  characteristics  are  Flemish.  He  .also 


I   AM  A   FREE-LANCE  121 

suggests  the  solid  Belgian  beef  and  beer.  Like  some 
mystics  he  believes  in  the  things  that  cheer  and  nourish. 
He  told  me  that  in  composing  "Monna  Vanna"  he 
read  Sismondi  for  a  year  to  get  historical  colour.  He 
was  frank  as  to  the  conception  of  the  play:  "I  wrote  it 
for  Madame  Maeterlinck,"  he  said,  which  disposed  of 
my  theory  that  the  piece  was  written  to  prove  he  knew 
how  to  make  a  drama  on  conventional  lines.  "Nat 
urally  I  read  Browning;  who  does  not?  'Luria'  I  have 
known  for  a  long  time,  but  it  is  not  a  stage  play."  He 
spoke  of  Shakespeare  as  other  men  speak  of  their  deity. 
I  was  interested  in  what  he  thought  of  "The  Tempest/' 
for  he  had  been  accused  by  some  critics  of  studying  that 
immortal  fantasy  before  he  wrote  "Joyzelle."  "Cer 
tainly  I  did.  I  simply  used  Shakespeare  as  a  point  of 
departure.  Could  I  do  better?  And,  then,  how  can  any 
one  speak  of  plagiarism,  who  has  read  'The  Tempest* 
and  has  seen  my  little  piece?"  M.  Maeterlinck  is  open- 
minded.  We  spoke  of  other  things,  of  Poe's  vague, 
troubled  beauty;  of  Emerson,  upon  whose  aphoristic  phil 
osophy  he  sets  a  great  store,  and  of  the  contemporary 
theatre.  Fearful  of  tiring  the  poet,  we  went  away,  again 
across  courtyards,  down  spiral  staircases.  Seemingly  a 
recluse,  Maeterlinck  is  the  most  active  of  men.  His 
translation  of  "Macbeth"  into  French  is  the  best  I  have 
read.  Later  I  may  quote  from  some  of  his  letters  to  me. 


XIII 
CRITICISM 

For  at  least  five  years  in  London,  1890-1895,  I  wrote 
for  the  London  Musical  Courier,  a  page  or  two  weekly 
entitled  the  "  Raconteur."  It  was  signed.  Through  it  I 
came  to  know  many  musical  and  literary  people  there. 
I  was  slowly  discovering  that  to  become  successful,  a 
critic  can't  wait  for  masterpieces,  but  must  coddle  medi 
ocrity.  Otherwise,  an  idle  pen.  Big  talents  are  rare,  so 
you  must,  to  hold  your  job,  praise  conventional  patterns. 
And  that  way  leads  to  the  stifling  of  critical  values. 
Everyone  criticises.  You  do,  the  flower  that  reacts  to 
the  sun,  your  butcher,  the  policeman  on  the  block,  all 
criticise.  It  is  a  beloved  prerogative.  The  difference 
between  your  criticism  and  mine  is  that  I  am  paid  for 
mine  and  you  must  pay  for  yours  after  you  hear  music 
or  see  the  play.  In  his  invaluable  studies,  Criticism 
and  Standards,  William  Crary  Brownell  does  not  hold 
with  the  Brunetiere  nor  with  the  Anatole  France  oppos 
ing  schools  of  criticism  He  detects  the  doctrinaire  and 
pedagogue  in  Brunetiere,  and  he  rightly  enough  fears  the 
tendency  towards  loose  thinking  in  the  camp  of  impres 
sionistic  criticism,  of  which  Anatole  France  is  the  recog 
nised  head.  Mr.  Brownell  believes  in  central  authority. 
Yet,  he  is  not  a  pontiff.  He  allows  the  needful  scope  for 
a  writer's  individuality.  It's  all  very  well  to  describe  the 
boating  of  your  soul  among  the  masterpieces  if  you  pos 
sess  a  soul  comparable  to  the  soul  of  Anatole  France,  but 

122 


CRITICISM  123 


yours  may  be  a  mean  little  soul  dwelling  up  some  back- 
alley,  and  your  pen  a  lean,  dull  one.  Will  your  critical 
adventures  be  worth  relating?  The  epicurean  test  of 
the  impressionist  is  not  a  standard,  says  Mr.  Brownell, 
"since  what  gives  pleasure  to  some,  gives  none  to  others. 
And  some  standard  is  a  necessary  postulate,  not  only 
of  criticism,  but  of  all  discussion,  or  even  discourse."  He 
asserts  that  criticism  is  an  art.  "One  of  Sainte-Beuve's 
studies  is  as  definitely  a  portrait  as  one  of  Holbein's." 
The  "creative  critic"  of  Wilde  is  hardly  a  reality.  There 
are  no  super-critics.  Only  men,  cultured  and  clairvoyant. 
Sainte-Beuve,  Taine,  Nietzsche,  Arnold,  Pater,  Benedetto 
Croce,  Georg  Brandes — and  this  Dane  is  the  most  cos 
mopolitan  of  all — are  thinkers  and  literary  artists.  It  is 
perilously  easy  to  imitate  their  mannerisms,  as  it  is  to 
parody  the  unpoetic  parodies  of  Whitman,  but  it  ends 
there.  A  little  humility  in  a  critic  is  a  wise  attitude. 
Humbly  to  follow  and  register  his  emotions  aroused  by 
the  masterpiece  is  his  function.  There  must  be  standards, 
but  the  two  greatest  are  sympathy  and  its  half-sister, 
sincerity.  The  schoolmaster  rule  of  thumb  is  ridiculous; 
ridiculous,  too,  is  any  man  setting  up  an  effigy  of  himself 
and  boasting  of  his  "objectivity."  The  happy  mean  be 
tween  swashbuckling  criticism  and  the  pompous  academic 
attitude,  dull  but  dignified,  seems  difficult  of  attainment. 
But  it  exists.  To  use  the  personal  pronoun  in  criticism 
doesn't  always  mean  "subjectivity."  I  don't  believe  in 
schools,  movements,  or  schematologies,  or  any  one 
method  of  seeing  and  writing.  Be  charitable,  be  broad 
- — in  a  word,  be  cosmopolitan.  He  is  a  hobby  of  mine, 
this  citizen  of  the  world.  A  novelist  may  be  provincial, 
parochial  as  the  town  pump,  that  is  his  picture;  but  a 
critic  must  not  be  narrow  in  his  outlook  on  the  world. 


i24  STEEPLEJACK 


He  need  not  be  so  catholic  as  to  admire  both  Cezanne  and 
Cabanel,  for  they  are  mutually  exclusive,  but  he  should 
be  cosmopolitan  in  his  sympathies,  else  his  standards  are 
insufficient.  The  truth  is,  criticism  is  a  full-sized  man's 
job.  I  was  amused  some  years  ago  to  read  the  edict  of 
some  young  Johnny  who  writes  hogwash  fiction  for  bone- 
heads,  in  which  he  proclaimed  that  essay  writing  and 
criticism  were  for  women.  I  don't  deny  they  are,  but 
our  uncritical  hero — whose  name  I've  forgotten,  but  who 
probably  turns  out  five  thousand  words  a  day  on  a  type 
writer — meant  the  statement  in  a  derogatory  sense. 
The  literature  that  can  show  such  a  virile  essayist  as 
Hazlitt,  as  exquisite  as  Lamb  and  Alice  Meynell,  to  men 
tion  only  three,  is  hardly  a  literature  that  needs  justifica 
tion.  And  what  of  Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  and  Ruskin? 

I  wrote  for  the  London  Saturday  Review.  But  I  was 
growing  tired  of  music  and  drama  from  the  critical 
standpoint.  Books,  too,  were  getting  on  my  nerves. 
There  is  a  lot  of  nonsense  written  about  the  evil  that  a 
book  may  accomplish.  Books  never  kill,  even  their 
vaunted  influence  is  limited;  else  what  vases  of  iniquity 
would  be  the  reviewers.  I  confess  I  even  doubt  the 
value  of  so-called  "constructive  criticism."  Interpreters 
of  music,  drama,  paint,  marble  poetry  and  prose  write 
nice  little  letters  to  critics,  assuring  them  that  such  and 
such  a  critique  changed  their  conception  of  such  and 
such  a  work.  I  am  sceptical.  You  tickle  an  artist  in 
print  and  he  flatters  you  in  private.  (I  have  known  of 
prima  donnas  that  send  flowers  to  the  wives  of  critics, 
but  that  is  too  obvious  a  proceeding,  also  too  expensive.) 
The  reason  I  don't  believe  artists  of  the  theatre,  opera, 
or  the  plastic  arts  ever  alter  artist's  schemes  of  interpreta- 


CRITICISM  125 


tion  is  because  they  couldn't  do  it  if  they  tried.  I  don't 
mean  that  he  or  she  doesn't  broaden  with  experience; 
polish  comes  with  practice;  but  I  doubt  those  radical 
changes  which  some  critics  pretend  to  have  brought 
about  with  their  omniscient  pens.  In  the  case  of  no 
bodies  or  mediocrities,  who  never  make  up  their  mind  to 
a  definite  conception,  it  may  be  different.  Great  artists 
are  secretly  contemptuous  of  what  amateurs — meaning 
critics — may  say  of  them,  no  matter  the  thickness  of  the 
butter  they  spread  on  the  critic's  bread.  A  book  review 
didn't  kill  John  Keats.  Criticism  is  an  inverted  form  of 
love.  The  chief  thing  to  the  public  performer — whether 
in  the  pulpit  or  politics — is  neither  blame  nor  praise,  but 
the  mention  of  their  names  in  print.  The  mud  or  the 
treacle  is  soon  forgotten.  The  name  sticks.  There  is  a 
large  element  of  charlatanism  in  everyone  who  earns  his 
living  before  the  footlights  of  life.  Ah !  the  Art  of  Pub 
licity. 

In  his  peculiarly  amiable  manner,  George  Bernard 
Shaw  once  reproached  me  with  being  a  hero-worshipper 
of  the  sort  who,  not  finding  his  idol  precisely  as  he  had 
pictured  him,  promptly  tweaks,  pagan-wise,  his  sacred 
nose.  George  probably  thought  of  me  as  a  pie-eyed 
youth  who  was  all  roses  and  raptures,  one  who  couldn't 
see  through  the  exceedingly  large  rift  in  the  Shavian  mill 
stone.  He  changed  his  mind  later.  But  I  am  a  hero- 
worshipper.  I  have  a  large  fund  of  admiration  for  the 
achievements  of  men  and  women,  and  I  can  admire  Mr. 
Shaw  simply  because  he  so  admires  his  own  bright,  par 
ticular  deity,  Himself.  But  I  can't  go  off  half-trigger 
if  the  target  is  not  to  my  taste.  Many  times  I  have 
been  dragged  to  the  well  and  couldn't  be  made  to  drink; 
not  because  of  the  water  therein,  but  that  I  wasn't 


126  STEEPLEJACK 

thirsty.  I  have  with  all  my  boasted  cosmopolitanism 
many  "blind"  spots,  many  little  Dr.  Fells,  the  reason 
why  I  cannot  tell.  It  was  with  difficulty  I  read  Arnold 
Bennett,  notwithstanding  the  joy  he  gave  me  in  Buried 
Alive,  yet  I  couldn't  swallow  Old  Wives'  Tale — the  hiss 
ing  lengths  of  s's — nor  that  dull  epic,  Clayhanger.  Mr. 
Bennett,  whose  touch  is  Gallic,  who  is  first  and  last  a 
trained  newspaper  man,  is  out  of  his  depth  in  the  artistic 
territory  of  Tolstoy  and  Hardy.  He  is  not  a  literary 
artist  like  George  Moore  or  John  Galsworthy.  But  Mr. 
Bennett  enthralled  me  with  his  The  Pretty  Lady,  an 
evocation,  artistically  evoked.  So  thus  I  had  to  reverse 
a  too  hasty  judgment  upon  Arnold  Bennett,  whose  re 
sources  are  evidently  not  exhausted.  When  Mr.  Wells 
writes  a  new  book,  I  always  take  down  one  of  his  earlier 
ones.  I  can't  believe  in  those  silhouettes  that  he  pro 
jects  across  his  pages  with  the  velocity  of  moving- 
pictures.  They  are  not  altogether  human,  those  men 
and  women  who  talk  a  jumble  of  Meredithese  and  social 
science.  But  how  the  wheels  whiz  round !  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  them,  I  don't  believe  in  Machiavel,  or  Tono- 
Bungay,  or  Mr.  Britling,  or  that  absurd  Bishop;  above 
all,  I  don't  believe  in  the  god — with  a  lower-case  "g" 
of  Mr.  Wells.  A  vest-pocket  god,  a  god  to  be  put  in  a 
microbe  phial  and  worshipped,  while  sniffed  through  the 
nostrils.  As  prophet  Herbert  Wells  touches  the  imagina 
tion.  He  foresaw  many  things,  and  if  his  heat-ray  in 
vented  by  his  Martians  could  be  realised,  war  would  be 
forever  banished  from  the  solar  cinder  we  inhabit  and 
disgrace  with  our  antics.  The  Wells  of  The  First  Man 
in  the  Moon,  of  The  Isle  of  Dr.  Moreau,  of  The  Star, 
what  prodigies  of  invention  !  His  lunar  insects  are  more 
vital  than  the  machine-made  humans  of  his  newer  fie- 


CRITICISM  127 


tion.  No  one,  not  even  his  artistic  progenitor,  Jules 
Verne,  is  comparable  to  him  when  his  fancy  is  let  loose. 
One  living  writer  only  is  his  match,  J.  H.  Rosny,  Sr. 
The  Frenchman,  a  member  of  the  Goncourt  Academy, 
has  recently  written  The  Enigma  of  Givreuse,  a  war 
story  which  deals  with  a  dissociated  personality,  physi 
cally  double,  and  remarkable  for  its  skill  and  fantasy. 
His  Death  of  the  Earth  should  be  translated  because  it 
is  a  literary  masterpiece.  Mankind  dies  when  water 
vanishes  from  our  planet,  and  a  ferro-magnetic  organ 
ism  follows  him  as  master.  We  know  nothing  about 
the  twist  life  may  take  to-morrow  or  a  trillion  years 
hence,  so  it  is  useless  to  predict  that,  with  mankind,  the 
most  ferocious  devastator  of  life — man  mystically  wor 
ships  the  shedding  of  blood,  he  is  sadistic  at  his  roots, 
murder  is  a  condition  of  life — the  creation  of  other  vital 
forms  will  cease.  Quinton,  the  French  physicist,  declares 
that  birds  followed  man  in  the  zoological  series.  Per 
haps  he  means  birdmen. 


XIV 
WITH   JOSEPH    CONRAD 

One  afternoon,  years  ago,  Stephen  Crane  sat  in  the 
Everett  House  dining-room.  We  looked  out  on  Union 
Square.  The  author  of  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage 
asked  me  if  I  had  read  anything  by  Joseph  Conrad,  a 
friend  of  his,  a  Polish  sea-captain,  who  was  writing  the 
most  wonderful  things  in  English.  That  was  the  first 
time  I  heard  Conrad's  name.  When  I  went  to  see  him 
in  England  I  found  a  photograph  of  Stephen  Crane  on 
his  desk.  The  Conrads  loved  the  American  writer,  who 
had  often  visited  them.  I  thought  of  Crane  when  I  left 
London  one  foggy  morning  to  go  down  to  Kent,  invited 
by  Conrad,  and  I  also  thought  of  Mr.  Shaw,  for  Joseph 
Conrad  had  become  the  object  of  my  hero-worship;  nor 
has  the  worship  waned  with  the  years;  quite  the  contrary. 
His  "royal  command"  to  visit  him  stirred  my  imagina 
tion.  The  mirror  of  the  sea,  master  of  prose,  though 
writing  in  a  foreign  language;  possessing  a  style  large, 
sonorous,  picture-evoking,  as  microscopic  in  his  analysis 
as  Paul  Bourget,  as  exotic  as  Pierre  Loti,  without  the 
egotism  of  that  essentially  feminine  soul;  withal  a  Slav 
when  he  most  seems  an  Englishman,  Joseph  Conrad  is 
the  unique  weaver  of  magic  variations  on  that  most  tre 
mendous  theme,  the  sea. 

I  was  summoned,  as  I  say,  to  his  country  home  in  Kent 
and  in  the  most  cordial  fashion.  I  had  not  expected  a 
typhoon  blast  in  the  form  of  an  invitation,  nevertheless 

128 


WITH  JOSEPH  CONRAD  129 

from  the  writer  of  The  Nigger  of  the  Narcissus,  I  had 
looked  for  something  more  nautical,  something  like  this: 
"What  ho!  luff -to  and  run  your  miserable  little  writing 
yawl  into  my  harbour,  and  don't  be  slow  about  it,  blast 
your  buttons!"  But  I  had  forgotten  that  I  was  about 
to  visit  Joseph  Conrad,  and  not  the  merry  Mr.  Jacobs 
and  his  many  cargoes.  Kent  is  charming.  Kent  is 
hospitable.  But  it  consumed  all  of  two  hours  to  reach 
a  remote  station  called  Hamstreet,  after  changing  at 
Ashford.  A  motor-car  met  me.  I  thought  again  of 
Mr.  Shaw.  If  it  had  been  a  hydro-airplane  or  a  steam 
launch,  I  shouldn't  have  been  surprised,  but  a  motor 
car  and  Conrad  didn't  modulate;  which  proves  the  folly 
of  preconceived  notions.  I  had  seen  protographs  of 
Mr.  Conrad,  mature,  bearded,  with  commanding  eyes, 
a  master-mariner  as  well  as  a  master-psychologist. 
Would  he  resemble  his  portraits?  Of  course  not,  and  I 
prepared  for  the  worst.  I  was  delightfully  disappointed. 
At  the  door  of  his  "farmhouse,"  as  he  calls  it,  I  met  a 
man  of  the  world,  neither  sailor  nor  novelist,  just  a  simple- 
mannered  gentleman,  whose  welcome  was  sincere,  whose 
glance  was  veiled,  at  times  far-away,  whose  ways  were 
French,  Polish,  anything  but  "literary,"  bluff,  or  English. 
He  is  not  as  tall  as  he  seems.  He  is  restless.  He  paces 
an  imaginary  quarter-deck,  occasionally  peers  through 
the  windows  as  if  searching  the  horizon  for  news  of  the 
weather.  A  caged  sea-lion.  His  shoulder-shrug  and 
play  of  hands  are  Gallic  or  Polish,  as  you  will,  and  his 
eyes,  clouded  or  shining,  are  not  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race; 
they  are  Slavic,  even  the  slightly  muffled  voice  is  Slavic. 
One  of  the  most  beautiful  sounding  of  languages  is  Polish 
— the  French  of  the  North.  When  Mr.  Conrad  speaks 
English,  which  he  does  swiftly  and  with  clearness  of  enun- 


1 30  STEEPLEJACK 

elation,  you  may  hear,  rather  overhear,  the  foreign 
cadence;  the  soft  slurring  of  sibilants  characteristic  of 
Polish  speech.  He  is  more  "foreign"  looking  than  I 
had  expected.  He  fluently  speaks  French,  and  he  often 
lapsed  into  it  during  our  conversation.  And  like  other 
big  men  he  asked  more  questions  than  he  answered, 
supersubtle  Sarmatian  that  he  is.  But  his  curiosity  is 
prompted  by  boundless  sympathy  for  things  human. 

He  is,  as  you  must  have  surmised,  the  most  lovable  of 
men.  He  takes  an  interest  in  everything,  save  bad  art, 
which  moves  him  to  vibrating  indignation,  and  he  is 
sympathetic  when  speaking  of  the  work  of  his  contem 
poraries.  What  a  lesson  for  critics  with  a  barbed-wire 
method  would  be  the  opinions  of  Mr.  Conrad  on  art  and 
artists.  Naturally,  he  has  his  gods,  his  half-gods,  his 
major  detestations.  The  Bible  and  Flaubert  were  his 
companions  throughout  the  years  he  voyaged  in  southern 
seas;  from  holy  writ  he  absorbed  his  racy,  idiomatic  and 
diapasonic  English;  from  the  sonorous,  shining  prose  of 
the  great  French  writer  he  learned  the  art  of  writing  sen 
tences,  their  comely  shape  and  varied  rhythmic  gait,  their 
sound,  colour,  perfume;  the  passionate  music  of  words, 
their  hateful  and  harmonic  power.  He  studied  other 
masters;  Balzac  and  the  Russians.  Henry  James  has 
written  of  the  effect  produced  on  his  French  fellow- 
craftsmen  by  Ivan  Turgenev.  His  Gallic  side,  a  side 
frequently  shown  by  Russians,  they  appreciated;  his 
philosophical  German  training  they  understood;  but  the 
vast  mysterious  reservoir  of  his  Slavic  temperament  was 
for  them  non-existent.  So  close  a  friend  as  Flaubert 
was  unresponsive  to  the  rarest  in  Turgenev.  At  this 
juncture  I  can't  help  thinking  of  Conrad.  No  prophet 
has  been  more  envied  out  of  his  own  country.  His  fellow- 


WITH  JOSEPH  CONRAD  131 

artists,  Hardy,  Kipling,  Galsworthy,  Arthur  Symons, 
the  late  Henry  James,  and  the  younger  choir,  were  and 
are  his  admirers.  His  critics  are  sometimes  extravagant 
in  their  praise  of  his  art;  yet,  I  haven't  thus  far  read  a 
critique  that  gives  me  a  sense  of  finality.  They  miss  his 
Slavic  side,  else  are  repelled  by  it.  And  irony  ...  an 
unforgivable  offence.  Mr.  Shaw  found  out  that  fact 
early  in  the  game,  and  always  uses  a  bludgeon;  that  is 
why  he  is  called  subtle  in  England — and  America — when 
he  is  drawing  blood  with  the  blunt  edge  of  his  razor. 
Conrad  is  nothing  if  not  ironical.  His  irony  is  an  illu 
minating  model  for  the  elect,  but  it  has  not  endeared 
him  to  the  public  and  to  certain  critics.  What  havoc  was 
wrought  on  the  appearance  of  Under  Western  Eyes, 
which  might  have  been  written  by  Turgenev  so  far  as 
its  verbal  artistry,  and  planned  by  Dostoievsky,  because 
of  its  profound  characterisation  and  mystic  power;  yet 
it  is  unlike  any  book  by  either  of  the  two  Russians.  Its 
almost  malign,  ironical  mode  has  been  seldom  noted; 
we  were  only  informed  by  the  pens  of  presumptuous 
young  persons — principally  in  petticoats — that  Under 
Western  Eyes  is  a  copy  of  The  Crime  and  The  Punish 
ment,  when  it  is  the  most  searching  arraignment  of  Rus 
sian  tyranny,  Russian  bureaucracy — which  is  the  same 
thing — ever  written.  But  in  the  quiet  inferential  Con 
rad  key.  A  Pole,  he  hates  Russia,  as  hated  its  miserable 
Czar-crowned  rule,  Frederic  Chopin.  And  like  Chopin, 
Conrad  buries  his  cannon  in  flowers.  That  is  the  clue  to 
this  great  fiction — a  Dostoievsky  reversed,  a  contemner, 
not  an  apologist  of  the  Russian  Government.  I  have  told 
you  that  I  loved  Polish  art,  and  Joseph  Conrad  is  another 
of  my  idols. 

He  is  pre-eminently  versatile,  and  in  the  back  garden 


1 32  STEEPLEJACK 

of  his  culture,  in  the  enormous  storehouse  of  his  experi 
ences,  there  flits  betimes  an  uneasy  shadow,  an  ogre  that 
threatens;  it  is  his  Slavic  temperament.  He  would  not 
be  Polish  and  a  man  of  genius  if  the  Polish  ZaI  was  not 
in  his  writings,  in  his  gaze  and  speech;  that  half-desire, 
half-melancholy,  that  half-yearning,  half-sorrow,  a  divine 
discontent,  not  to  be  expressed  in  a  phrase,  unless  it  be 
in  the  magical  phrase  of  his  countryman,  Chopin. 

The  existence  of  Conrad  has  been  too  close  to  the  soil 
not  to  have  heard  the  humming  of  the  human  heart  and 
its  overtones.  The  elemental  things  are  his  chief  con 
cern,  not  the  doings  of  dolls.  He  is  not  a  propagandist. 
He  never  tries  to  prove  anything.  He  is  the  artist  pure 
and  simple.  He  has  followed  the  ancient  injunction  to 
look  into  his  heart  and  write — he  the  most  objective  of 
artists,  with  the  clairvoyance  of  a  seer.  Nevertheless, 
his  true  happiness  lies  nearer  the  core  of  his  nature — the 
love  of  his  family.  For  certain  young  writers  this  hu 
man  trait  may  seem  banal.  Any  butcher  or  policeman 
can  love  his  wife  and  children.  Art  is  a  jealous  mistress, 
we  are  told  by  pale  youths  who  wearily  look  down  upon 
a  stupid  world  from  their  ivory  towers.  It  was  the  un 
happy  Marie  Bashkirtseff  who  said  that  her  washer 
woman  could  breed  children,  so  there  was  nothing  to 
boast  about  maternity.  Mr.  Conrad  thinks  otherwise. 
He  is  not  only  a  great  writer,  but  a  loving  father  and 
husband — that  classic  obituary  phrase !  There  is  no 
paradox  here.  It  is  because  he  is  so  human  that  helps 
him  to  be  so  masterful  a  writer.  He  can  pluck  the 
strings  of  pity,  terror,  irony,  and  humour,  and  draw  re 
sounding  music  from  them.  But  if  you  speak  of  him  as  a 
"literary"  man,  he  waves  you  an  emphatic  negative. 
He  admires  literary  virtuosity  but  does  not  often  in- 


WITH  JOSEPH  CONRAD  133 

dulge  in  it.  He  admires  Anatole  France,  but  in  the  prac 
tice  of  his  own  art  he  is  the  opposite  of  that  velvety 
sophist.  He  takes  pride  in  his  profession,  yet  is  free  from 
vanity  or  self-seeking;  indeed,  he  is  far  from  being  a 
practical  man.  This  worries  him  more  than  it  does  his 
friends,  and  the  fact  that  he  is  not  a  well  man  is  another 
thorn  in  his  flesh.  For  months  at  a  time  he  is  tortured 
by  rheumatic  gout,  which  illness  keeps  him  from  his 
desk;  thereat  much  wrath  and  many  regrets.  However, 
the  optimistic  spirit  of  the  great  artist  shines  through 
the  mists  of  his  pessimism.  In  his  reminiscences  you 
will  find  a  veracious  account  of  his  childhood  and  his 
early  passion  for  the  sea. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  of  my  visit  he  astonished  me  by 
transforming  himself  into  an  Englishman.  He  sported 
a  monocle  and  his  expression  was  haughty  as  he  drove 
his  car  over  the  smooth  Kentish  roads.  The  Slav  had 
disappeared.  He  spoke  no  more  of  art,  but  dwelt  on  his 
gout,  his  poor  man's  gout,  as  he  smilingly  called  it.  Too 
soon,  I  was  standing  on  the  platform  of  Ashford  station 
en  route  for  London.  Conrad  is  only  one  of  his  names, 
his  family  belongs  to  the  Polish  nobility,  but  the  mag 
netism  of  the  waters  drew  him  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and 
only  accidentally  did  he  become  a  writer.  Accident ! 
Chance !  It  is  a  leading  motive  of  his  fiction.  One 
night  sitting  in  a  cafe  in  Ghent,  Maurice  Maeterlinck  con 
versed  with  his  friend,  Charles  Van  Lerberghe,  a  Belgian 
writer  of  originality,  and  that  same  conversation  proved 
a  springboard  for  the  art  of  the  younger  man.  Van 
Lerberghe  indicated;  Maeterlinck  developed.  Chance, 
again,  or  divination !  Joseph  Conrad  is  of  the  company 
of  Flaubert,  Turgenev,  and  Dostoievsky.  "Not  yet  is 
Poland  vanquished/' 


XV 
BRANDES  IN  NEW  YORK 

When  I  saw  Dr.  Georg  Brandes  at  the  Hotel  Astor  a 
few  months  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  I  told  him 
that  he  resembled  the  bust  of  him  by  Klinger.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  seen  the  famous  Danish  author  to 
whom  I  dedicated  Egoists.  Past  seventy  then,  as  active 
as  a  youth,  I  saw  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  live  to  be 
a  centenarian.  An  active  brain  is  lodged  in  his  nimble 
body.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  him  no  questions 
about  America.  I  found  him  in  a  rage  over  the  manner 
in  which  he  was  misrepresented  by  his  interviewers.  It 
should  be  remembered  that  primarily  he  is  a  cosmopolitan. 
He  writes  in  English,  Danish,  French,  and  German  with 
equal  ease.  As  to  the  provinciality  of  our  country  in 
the  matter  of  art  and  literature  he  has  definite  opinions, 
but  he  was  polite  enough  not  to  rub  them  in  on  me. 
He  was  accused  by  some  rough-rider  cub  reporter  of 
finding  his  favourite  reading  in  the  works  of  Jack  London  ! 
That  amused  him.  Poe,  Emerson,  and  Whitman  inter 
ested  him,  though  not  as  pathfinders  or  iconoclasts. 
The  originality  of  this  trinity  he  failed  to  recognise; 
made-over  Europeans,  he  called  them;  Emerson  and 
German  transcendental  philosophy;  Poe  and  E.  T. 
W.  Hoffman;  Whitman  and  Ossian.  Even  Walt's  rugged 
speech  is  a  parody  of  MacPherson's — and  Ossian  himself 
is  a  windy  parody  of  the  Old  Testament  style.  Brandes 
is  an  iconoclast,  a  radical,  a  born  non-conformist,  and 
oftener  a  No-Sayer  than  a  Yes-Sayer.  The  many-headed 

134 


BRANDES   IN   NEW  YORK  135 

monster  has  no  message  for  him.  As  he  was  the  first 
European  critic  to  give  us  a  true  picture  of  Ibsen  and 
Nietzsche,  I  led  him  to  speak  of  Nietzsche.  Once  at 
Baireuth,  where  I  went  many  times  to  hear  the  Wagner 
music-drama  at  the  fountainhead — and  often  muddy  was 
the  music-making,  I  am  sorry  to  say — I  was  shown  the 
house  of  Max  Stirner  by  a  friend,  who  said:  "When  the 
name  and  music  of  Wagner  is  forgotten,  Stirner's  will 
be  in  the  mouth  of  the  world."  I  pricked  up  my  ears  at 
this.  I  knew  Stirner's  extraordinary  book,  The  Ego  and 
His  Own,  knew  his  real  name,  Johann  Kaspar  Schmitt, 
a  poor  school-master  half-starved  in  Berlin,  and  in  1848 
imprisoned  by  the  Prussian  Government.  This  intel 
lectual  anarch,  rather  call  him  nihilist — for  compared 
with  his  nihilism  Bakunine's  is  revolutionary  rhetoric- 
was  to  become  the  mightiest  force  in  civilisation !  I 
couldn't  believe  it.  This  was  in  1896.  But  in  1919  I  re 
call  my  friend's  prophecy  when  I  read  of  the  Bolsheviki 
in  Russia.  Not  Nietzsche,  but  Max  Stirner  has  been  the 
motor-force  in  the  new  revolution.  No  half-way  house 
of  socialism  for  the  Reds.  That  is  the  lesson  of  Artzi- 
bachev's  Sanine,  which  most  critics  missed,  partially 
because  of  an  imperfect  English  translation — whole  key 
note  chapters  suppressed — and  also  because  they  did  not 
note  the  significance  of  the  new  man,  who,  while  continu 
ing  the  realistic  tradition  of  Dostoievsky  and  Tolstoy, 
was  diametrically  opposed  to  their  sentimental  Brother 
hood  of  Man  humbug,  and  preached  the  fiercest  indi 
vidualism  while  repudiating  Nietzsche  and  his  aristo 
cratic  individualism. 

Dr.  Brandes  sets  more  store  by  Nietzsche  than  Stirner, 
and  was  the  first  to  apply  to  Nietzsche  the  appellation  of 
"radical  aristocrat."  He  did  not  think  that  Nietzsche 


136  STEEPLEJACK 

had  access  to  Stirner's  The  Ego  and  His  Own.  I  believe 
the  opposite.  I  know  he  had,  and  there  is  a  brochure 
published  by  a  learned  Swiss  which  proves  the  fact. 
However,  the  man  who  called  the  Germans  "the  Chinese 
of  Europe"  wasn't  Stirner.  It  was  Nietzsche.  When 
we  switched  to  August  Strindberg,  of  whom  I  wrote  at 
length  in  Iconoclasts,  Dr.  Brandes  remarked:  "Yes,  he 
was  mad.  Once  he  visited  me  and  related  how  he  had 
called  at  a  lunatic  asylum  near  Stockholm.  He  rang 
the  bell  and  asked  the  physician  if  he  (Strindberg)  were 
crazy,  to  which  the  doctor  replied,  'My  dear  Mr.  Strind 
berg,  if  you  will  only  consent  to  stay  with  me  for  six 
weeks  and  talk  with  me  every  day,  I  promise  to  answer 
your  question."  After  that  Brandes  had  no  doubts. 
And,  then,  Strindberg's  wild  ideas  about  Ibsen — he  was 
convinced  that  Ibsen  had  taken  him  for  the  model  of 
Ekdal,  the  erratic  photographer  in  The  Wild  Duck. 
Brandes  considers  Miss  Julie  the  best  play  of  Strindberg. 
I  amused  him  by  telling  how  I  had  gone  to  Stockholm 
sixteen  years  ago  to  interview  the  Swedish  poet  and 
dramatist.  I  saw  him  once,  for  two  minutes.  It  was 
after  midnight  and  he  stood  in  his  lighted  window  and 
cursed  me,  cursed  the  lady  with  me,  who  had  aroused 
him  by  throwing  gravel  at  his  bedroom  window,  and 
then  he  disappeared  in  a  blue  haze  of  profanity.  It  was 
gently  explained  to  me  that  one  reason  for  his  bad 
humour,  and  for  the  rift  in  the  matrimonial  lute — he  had 
three  or  four  such  lutes — was  the  knowledge  that  his 
third  wife  had  played  Nora,  in  "A  Doll's  House,"  the 
night  I  had  called  on  him.  Which  was  unfortunate  for  me. 
Strindberg  hated  Ibsen,  which  hatred  was  not  returned; 
quite  the  contrary;  Ibsen  is  said  to  have  admired  Strind 
berg's  versatility  and  bursts  of  dramatic  power. 


BRANDES   IN  NEW  YORK  137 

Brandes  is  not  alone  the  discoverer  of  Ibsen,  Nietzsche, 
and  Strindberg,  but  he  is  himself  a  re- valuer  of  old  valua 
tions.  Therein  lies  his  significance  for  this  generation. 
He  wrote  to  Nietzsche  in  1888:  "I  have  been  the  best 
hated  man  in  the  North  for  the  past  four  years.  The 
newspapers  rave  against  me  every  day,  especially  since 
my  last  long  feud  with  Bjornson,  in  which  all  the  *  Moral' 
German  newspapers  take  sides  against  me.  Perhaps 
you  know  Bjornson's  insipid  drama,  'The  Glove/  and 
have  heard  of  his  propaganda  for  the  virginity  of  men, 
and  his  league  with  the  women  advocates  who  demand 
'moral  equality/  In  Sweden  the  crazy  young  things 
have  formed  themselves  into  large  societies  promising  to 
marry  only  virgin  young  men.  I  presume  they  will  get 
them  guaranteed  like  watches,  but  there  will  be  no  guar 
anteeing  for  the  future."  There,  you  have  a  specimen  of 
the  hitting  out  from  the  shoulder  by  this  Dane.  He  be 
lieves  in  the  vote  for  women,  but  dislikes  the  moral  hum- 
buggery  and  sentimental  flimflam,  which  everywhere  per 
meates  the  movement.  He  knows  as  all  sensible  women 
know,  that  the  vote  will  not  prove  a  panacea  for  the 
"wrongs"  of  their  sex,  the  chief  one  seeming  to  be  in 
their  eyes  the  fact  that  they  are  born  women,  and  not 
men;  nor  will  it  add  one  cubit  to  their  physical  or  men 
tal  stature.  Dr.  Brandes  is  an  uncompromising  indi 
vidualist.  Men  or  women  must  work  out  their  moral 
salvation,  and  "movements,"  "laws,"  "majorities"  will 
not  help,  in  fact,  will  impede  personal  development. 

The  affections  of  Brandes  have  always  been  bestowed 
on  the  literatures  of  England  and  France.  Consider  his 
Modern  Spirits,  studies  of  Renan,  Flaubert,  Turgenev, 
Goncourt,  or  his  work  on  Shakespeare,  or  his  Main  Cur 
rents  in  the  Literature  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  of 


138  STEEPLEJACK 

which  a  French  critic,  Maurice  Bigeon,  has  said  that 
Brandes  did  for  his  century  what  Sainte-Beuve  did  for 
the  seventeenth  century  in  his  History  of  Port-Royal. 
And  how  many  flies,  large  and  small,  there  are  imbedded 
in  the  amber  of  the  Brandes  style !  He  is  of  Jewish 
origin,  and  like  his  parents,  not  orthodox.  Christians 
call  him  a  Jew,  while  orthodox  Jews  will  have  none  of 
him.  He  little  cares,  no  doubt  crying  a  plague  on  both 
their  houses.  But  he  fights  for  his  race;  he  repeatedly 
attacked  Russia  for  its  treatment  of  the  Jew,  and  he  has 
always  been  disliked  in  Germany  for  his  trenchant  ar 
raignment  of  the  Schleswig-Holstein  incident.  He  has 
combated  the  eternal  imbecility  of  mankind,  fighting 
like  all  independent  thinkers  on  the  losing  side.  The  war 
with  Prussia  in  1 864  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  young 
man.  (He  was  born  in  1842.)  It  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  the  Latin  genius  was  more  akin  to  the  Danish 
than  the  Germanic.  In  1866  he  visited  Paris,  and  fell 
under  the  spell  of  French  culture.  When  the  war  of 
1870  began  he  went  to  London,  later  to  Italy.  At  this 
time  his  mind,  mirror-like,  reflected  many  characteristics 
of  contemporary  thinkers.  He  had  already  met  John 
Stuart  Mill,  and  translated  him  into  Danish.  The  hard 
positivism  of  the  Englishman  he  was  never  wholly  to 
lose;  luckily  it  was  tempered  by  his  acquaintance  with 
Taine  and  Renan.  What  is  vital,  what  makes  for  prog 
ress,  what  has  lasting  influence  in  social  life?  he  asks  in 
his  Main  Currents.  With  his  Hebraic  irony  he  stung  the 
intellectual  sloth  of  Denmark  to  the  quick.  His  life  was 
made  unpleasant  at  the  Copenhagen  University,  but  he 
had  the  younger  generation  behind  him.  He  knew  that 
to  write  for  the  entrenched  prejudiced  class  would  be  a 
waste  of  ink.  He  exploded  his  bomb  beneath  the  na- 


BRANDES   IN   NEW  YORK  139 

tional  ark  and  blew  sky-high  conservative  ideals.  He  not 
only  became  a  national  figure,  but  a  world-critic.  Not 
the  polished  artistic  writer  that  is  Sainte-Beuve,  not  the 
possessor  of  such  a  synthetic  intellect  as  Taine's,  Georg 
Brandes  is  the  cosmopolitan  thinker  par  excellence,  and 
on  his  shoulders  their  mantles  have  fallen.  He  will  re 
main  the  archetype  of  cosmopolitan  critics  for  future 
generations.  It  is  of  him  I  think  when  I  preach  breadth 
in  criticism,  and  while  he  is  not  a  specialist  in  art  or 
music,  his  culture  is  broad  enough  to  embrace  their 
values.  A  humanist,  the  mind  of  Brandes  is  steel-col 
oured.  When  white-hot  it  is  ductile,  it  flows  like  lava 
from  an  eruptive  volcano,  but  always  is  it  steel,  whether 
rigid  or  liquefied.  It  is  pre-eminently  the  fighting  mind. 
He  objected  to  being  described  as  "brilliant."  He  must 
hate  the  word,  as  I'm  sure  Bernard  Shaw  does.  When  all 
other  adjectives  fail,  then  "  brilliant "  is  lugged  in  to  do 
duty  at  a  funeral,  or  a  marriage,  and  no  doubt  at  "bril 
liant"  obstetrical  events.  The  model  of  Brandes  as  a 
portrait-painter  of  individuals  and  ideas  is  Velasquez, 
because  "Velasquez  is  not  brilliant  but  true."  Yet  he 
is  brilliant  and  steel-like  and  lucid,  whether  writing  of 
Lassalle  or  Shakespeare  or  Poland.  His  Impressions  of 
Russia  barred  him  from  that  country.  If  the  powers 
that  be  had  listened  in  1914  to  the  denunciations  and 
warnings  of  Brandes  and  Israel  Zangwill,  certain  dis 
asters  might  not  have  come  to  pass  in  Russia.  An  ardent 
upholder  of  Taine  and  the  psychology  of  race,  he  con 
tends  that  in  the  individual,  not  the  mob,  is  the  only 
hope  for  progress.  He  is  all  for  the  psychology  of  the 
individual.  Like  Carlyle  he  has  the  cult  of  the  great 
man.  The  fundamental  question  is — can  the  well-being 
of  the  race,  which  is  the  end  of  all  effort,  be  attained 


140  STEEPLEJACK 

without  great  men?  "I  say  no,  and  again,  no !"  he  cries. 
He  is  a  firm  believer  that  every  tub  should  stand  on  its 
own  bottom,  and  in  this  earthly  pasture  where  the  sheep 
think  and  vote  to  order  his  lesson  is  writ  clear:  To 
thyself  be  true !  the  lesson  set  forth  with  double  facets 
by  Ibsen  in  Peer  Gynt  and  Brand.  And  also  by 
Emerson.  For  mob  and  mob-made  laws  Georg  Brandes 
has  a  mighty  hatred.  He  is  a  radical  aristocrat,  whose 
motto  might  be:  "Blessed  are  the  proud  of  spirit  for  they 
shall  inherit  the  Kingdom  of  Earth !"  Agitated  as  he  is 
by  the  Great  War — his  letters  to  me  were  full  of  it — he 
was  philosopher  enough  to  plunge  into  philosophical  work, 
and  he  has  written  since  1914  two  profound  works  on 
such  divergent  themes  as  Goethe  and  Voltaire,  both  of 
which  will  be  given  an  English  garb  when  a  more  pro 
pitious  period  arrives. 


XVI 
THE  COLONEL 

I  was  not  precisely  "summoned"  to  Oyster  Bay  on 
election  day  early  in  November,  1915,  but  I  took  Colonel 
Roosevelt's  invitation  in  the  light  of  a  "royal  command" 
and  went  down  in  company  with  John  Quinn,  who  had 
arranged  the  affair  and  Francis  Heney,  formerly  public 
prosecutor  in  San  Francisco.  I  had  received  several  let 
ters  from  the  Colonel  of  Colonels,  of  which  I  recall  two 
sentences.  One  was:  "What  a  trump  John  Quinn  is!"; 
the  other:  "I  have  just  received  New  Cosmopolis;  my 
son  Kermit,  whose  special  delight  is  New  York,  would 
probably  appreciate  it  more  than  I  do,  for  I  am  a  coun 
tryman  rather  than  a  man  of  the  pavements."  Now  I 
had  always  thought  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  as  a  "man  of 
the  pavements,"  despite  his  delight  in  rough-riding  over 
Western  prairies.  Personally,  I  found  him  the  reverse  of 
either;  a  scholarly  man,  fond  of  the  arts — he  has  a  num 
ber  of  pictures  by  the  late  Marcius  Simons,  a  young 
American  painter,  who  had  been  influenced  by  Turner. 
He  has  an  excellent  library  of  Colonial  literature  and  is 
fond  of  digging  out  pregnant  sentences  from  early  preach 
ers  and  statesmen.  He  showed  me  some  of  the  trophies 
he  had  acquired  in  Europe  while  on  his  Grand  Tour. 
One  was  a  photograph  of  the  late  Andrew  Carnegie  taken 
in  Berlin  during  military  manoeuvres.  Both  Colonel 
Roosevelt  and  Mr.  Carnegie  were  guests  of  Kaiser  Wil- 
helm.  On  the  photograph  the  Kaiser  had  politely  scrib 
bled:  "That  old  fool,  Andrew  Carnegie,"  probably  allud- 

141 


142  STEEPLEJACK 

ing  to  the  projected  Peace  Palace  at  The  Hague.  Young 
Philip  Roosevelt  was  visiting  his  uncle  that  day.  I  had 
previously  met  him.  War  was  discussed  by  the  Colonel 
with  the  zest  he  displayed  to  the  last.  I  told  him  that  I 
had  been  present  at  the  formal  opening  of  the  Peace 
Palace  in  September,  1913,  at  The  Hague,  and  that  the 
day  was  so  hot  that  all  Holland  fled  to  the  beach  at 
Scheveningen,  adding  that  I  believed  the  palace  would 
eventually  be  turned  into  the  finest  cafe  in  Europe.  And 
I  printed  this  prophecy  (?)  in  the  New  York  Times  in 
my  reporting  of  the  hollow  mockery.  One  question  I 
permitted  myself:  "Colonel,  would  the  Lusitania  have 
been  sunk  if  you  had  been  in  the  White  House?"  Snap 
ping  that  formidable  jaw  of  his  he  exclaimed:  "I  don't 
think  there  would  have  been  a  Lusitania  incident  if  I  had 
been  President."  I  believed  him. 

John  Quinn,  to  whom  he  referred,  is,  I  need  hardly  tell 
you,  an  art  collector  and  a  well-known  barrister  in  New 
York.  His  collection  is  rich  in  modern  pictures,  from 
Puvis  de  Chavannes  to  Augustus  John  and  Picasso.  I 
saw  Henry  Ward  Beecher  once  on  Fulton  Street,  near 
the  ferry.  He  had  the  mask  of  a  tragic  actor,  the  jowls 
heavy,  the  eyes  wonderful  in  expression.  This  virile 
clergyman  and  patriot  has  a  statue  erected  to  his  memory 
in  Brooklyn.  Which  is  just.  Setting  aside  his  services 
for  the  cause  of  liberty  during  the  war  of  emancipation, 
did  he  not  enrich  English  speech  with  such  racy  phrases 
as  "nest-hiding,"  "on  the  ragged  edge,"  and  "the  parox 
ysmal  kiss"?  With  the  solitary  exception  of  Walt  Whit 
man  no  man  has  come  out  of  Brooklyn  who  could  write 
such  powerful  words.  Henry  James  I  only  saw  once, 
and  then  as  he  stepped  on  the  lift  he  saluted  me  as  "Good- 
by,  Mr.  Scribner!"  It  was  at  the  publishing  house  of 


THE  COLONEL  143 


Scribners,  then  on  Fifth  Avenue  below  Twenty-second 
Street.  My  shaven  face  and  glasses  must  have  deceived 
him.  Still,  for  a  poor  devil  of  an  author  to  be  taken  for 
one  of  his  publishers  was,  after  all,  achieving  something 
in  literature.  Another  great  man  that  I  saw  and  only 
once  was  the  poet,  Swinburne.  It  was  during  a  Channel- 
crossing.  I  had  encountered  Heinrich  Conried,  not  then 
manager  of  our  Opera  House,  in  Dieppe,  and  he  was  so 
seasick  that  I  was  alarmed,  fearing  he  would  collapse. 
Swinburne  did  not  look  cheerful  himself,  and  for  a  poet 
who  so  rapturously  celebrates  the  sea,  I  fancied  he  felt 
rather  seedy;  certainly  he  hugged  the  rail.  The  water 
was  very  rough.  I  should  like  to  have  gone  closer,  to 
have  touched  his  hand  and  cried,  Thalassa !  but  his  eyes 
were  distraught,  his  locks  dank,  and,  with  a  shawl  around 
his  slim  shoulders,  he  was  far  from  a  heroic  spectacle. 
Swinburne  looked  less  like  a  poet  than  Arthur  Symons, 
who  in  the  old  days  was  poetical  in  appearance. 


XVII 
DRAMATIC  CRITICS 

When  I  began  writing  about  the  theatre,  the  principal 
critics  of  the  drama  were  William  Winter,  of  The  Tribune  ; 
"Weeping  Willie,"  as  Charlie  McLellan  nicknamed  him 
because  of  his  lachrymose  lyrical  propensities;  Edward  A. 
Dithmar,  of  The  Times,  who  literally  made  Richard 
Mansfield;  "Nym  Crinkle,"  of  The  World,  in  private  life 
Andrew  C.  Wheeler,  an  able  writer;  "Alan  Dale"  (Alfred 
Cohen),  of  The  Evening  World,  later  with  The  Morning 
Journal,  now  The  American  ;  Steinberg,  of  The  Herald  ; 
Franklin  Fyles,  of  The  Sun;  Willy  von  Sachs,  of  The 
Commercial  Advertiser;  John  Ranken  Towse,  then,  as 
now,  dramatic  editor  of  The  Evening  Post;  Charles  Dil- 
lingham  and  Acton  Davies,  of  The  Evening  Sun.  Mr. 
Dillingham  soon  graduated  into  the  managerial  ranks. 
C.  M.  S.  McLellan  was  the  wittiest  of  all  and  his  theatri 
cal  column  in  Town  Topics  was  worth  reading,  though  it 
stabbed  some  one  in  every  sentence.  I  have  told  you  of 
The  Recorder  and  its  fortunes.  Lawrence  Reamer,  who 
has  been  with  The  Sun  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  wrote 
with  equal  ease  musical  and  dramatic  criticism.  As  I 
have  already  told  you,  I  followed  Mr.  Fyles  in  1902  as 
dramatic  critic  of  The  Sun.  William  Winter  was  the  most 
poetic  and  erudite  of  critics.  For  years  he  wrote  with  un 
flagging  vivacity  English  undefiled  and  musical  to  the  ear. 
He  was  unfair  to  visiting  artists  unless  of  English  origin. 
He  nearly  strangled  Henry  Irving — that  worst  of  great 
actors — with  undeserved  praise.  But  if  actresses  came 

144 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  145 

from  the  continent,  such  as  Bernhardt,  Duse,  Rejane, 
Segond- Weber,  Mr.  Winter  poured  a  volley  of  abuse  into 
them,  riddling  their  private  life,  ridiculing  their  art,  alto 
gether  behaving  like  a  "hen-minded"  and  "highly  moral" 
man.  His  unfairness  has  had  no  equal  before  or  since, 
notwithstanding  his  vast  knowledge  and  experience. 
"Foreign  strumpets"  was  no  unusual  expression  to  be 
found  in  his  reviews.  He  notoriously  overpraised  Ada 
Rehan,  who  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  Helena  Modjeska; 
not  that  he  was  unfair  to  that  subtle  and  charming  Polish 
actress,  but  that  Augustin  Daly  and  Miss  Rehan  had 
won  his  critical  suffrage.  He  used  to  be  called  the  House 
Poet  of  Daly's,  not  without  warrant. 

One  morning  he  published  a  nasty  attack  on  Maurice 
Barrymore,  not  because  of  his  acting,  but  his  morals. 
Maurice,  who  lived  a  Bohemian  life,  didn't  see  what  his 
doing  off  the  boards  had  to  do  with  his  artistic  capacity. 
I  was  with  him  at  the  Arena  when  he  wrote  the  following 
brief  letter  to  Mr.  Winter:  "Sir,  in  your  column  of  The 
Tribune  this  morning  you  allude  to  me  as  an  immoral 
actor  who  should  not  be  allowed  to  blister  the  gaze  of 
the  theatre-going  public.  Sir,  I  never  kissed  your  daugh 
ter.  Maurice  Barrymore."  I  was  aghast.  "But,  Her- 
bie,"  I  remonstrated,  "people  don't  write  such  letters." 
He  gave  me  one  of  his  swift  dagger  glances  and  coolly 
rejoined:  "But  they  do,  Honey,  they  not  only  write 
them  but  they  mail  them,"  and  he  did  mail  the  letter, 
and  then  turning  to  me  he  winked.  "Of  course,  you 
know  the  old  hedgehog  has  no  daughter."  (But  he  had.) 
"I  shouldn't  have  written  it  if  he  had  one."  This  was 
characteristic  of  Barrymore.  Another  of  his  bon-mots 
was  made  to  me  early  one  morning  as  we  went  up  the  steps 
of  the  Lambs'  Club,  then  on  Thirty-fifth  Street,  opposite 


146  STEEPLEJACK 

the  Garrick,  formerly  Harrigan  and  Hart's  Theatre.  We 
had  been  on  the  loose  since  the  afternoon  before,  though 
not  off  the  list  of  the  living  by  a  long  shot.  Barrymore 
had  conceived  the  queer  notion  that  a  glass  dog  was  fol 
lowing  him,  and  being  of  a  fanciful  turn  he  speedily  found 
a  glass  chain  for  the  fragile  animal.  At  Moulds',  down 
on  University  Place,  he  explained  the  invisibility  of  the 
dog  by  the  fact  that  light  passed  through  it  and  cast 
no  shadow.  He  fought  one  unfortunate  man  to  a 
finish — Barry  was  a  fighter  of  science,  he  had  been  suc 
cessful  in  the  prize-ring — and  when  he  grabbed  the 
doubter  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  he  led  him  to  the  bar 
and  bade  him  drink,  adding:  "Now,  next  time  you'll 
know  a  glass  dog  when  you  see  one ! "  The  man  assented. 
Well,  we  led  the  mythical  canine  to  the  Lambs,  and  there 
it  occurred  to  me  that  dramatic  critics  were  not  admitted 
within  its  sacred  enclosure.  "Oh,  come  in,  come  in,  you 
are  not  a  dramatic  critic,"  said  Maurice.  The  witticism 
is  ancient,  but  the  instance  was  modern.  I  went  in,  the 
glass  dog  tinkling  after  us  on  crystal  paws,  and  as  \ve 
found  Victor  Herbert  and  Victor  Harris,  we  didn't  go 
home  till  breakfast.  Dear  old  Barry !  What  an  Apollo 
he  was.  Rather  slack  in  his  acting,  a  careless  "study," 
he  seemed  the  ideal  Orlando  and  Benedick.  I  say 
"seemed"  because  he  was  not.  Charles  Coghlan  was 
his  superior  at  every  point  save  virile  beauty  and  personal 
fascination,  though  Coghlan  had  enough  of  both. 

Alan  Dale  is  still  amusing  us  with  his  criticisms,  in 
which  always  lurk  kernels  of  truth  despite  his  flippant 
manner.  Nym  Crinkle  was  more  brilliant  than  safe,  and 
after  forty  years  I  still  find  myself  reading  Mr.  Towse  in 
The  Evening  Post,  and  agreeing  with  him.  Sane  and 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  147 

scholarly  he  did  not  yield  to  the  Ibsen  or  Shaw  movement, 
but  to  his  book,  Sixty  Years  in  the  Theatre,  I  turn  when 
I  wish  to  learn  something  of  an  actor  or  actress,  their  act 
ing,  their  personalities,  and  not  to  Winter's  more  polished 
literary  performances.  Mr.  Towse  is  the  sounder  critic 
of  the  two.  We  often  wondered  how  Mr.  Winter  con 
trived  to  turn  out  such  a  prodigious  amount  of  "copy" 
in  his  morning  columns.  He  would  usually  stay  to  the 
end  of  the  play,  then  go  to  the  Tribune  Building  and 
down-stairs  in  the  public  office  would  write  standing  at  a 
desk;  then  he  would  go  to  his  home  on  Staten  Island. 
And  for  fifty  years  or  more.  It  was  puzzling  till  some 
one  saw  him  working  on  his  voluminous  essays  and  the 
mystery  was  partly  explained.  So  varied  had  been  his 
experience,  such  a  trained  journalist  was  he,  that  he  could 
write  several  thousand  words  about  a  play  before  the 
performance — especially  Shakespeare's — leaving  spaces 
for  interlineations  chiefly  dealing  with  the  acting.  In 
the  case  of  Daly's  productions  he  attended  rehearsals 
and  had  leisure  to  file  his  Augustan  prose.  A  perilous 
example  for  a  lesser  talent.  But  what  classics  he  wrote. 
When  he  and  Henry  Krehbiel — during  the  early  Wagner 
seasons — and  Royal  Cortissoz  were  together  on  The  Trib 
une  the  combination  was  difficult  to  beat.  In  fact,  it 
wasn't  beaten.  Mr.  Cortissoz  was  literary  editor  in 
those  days,  and  art  writer,  too.  He  is  a  ripe  scholar  and 
master  of  coloured  prose. 

I  plodded.  I  did  much  reading  in  the  Elizabethans, 
but  I  saw  I  could  never  hope  to  meet  such  a  master  as 
William  Winter  on  equal  terms;  besides,  I  was  interested 
in  the  moderns — Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Hauptmann,  Suder- 
mann,  Schnitzler,  Strindberg,  all  the  new  Paris  crowd, 
Henri  Becque  first,  and  also  the  nascent  dramatic 


148  STEEPLEJACK 


movement  in  England.  For  D'Annunzio  I  had  a  hearty 
admiration,  though  his  poetic  drama  is  not  for  this  epoch 
in  the  theatre  where  vulgarity  and  frivolity  rule.  But 
as  interpreted  by  that  rarest  of  all  contemporary  act 
resses,  Eleanora  Duse,  the  works  of  the  Italian  are  an 
aesthetic  joy.  Not  only  is  D'Annunzio  the  greatest  liv 
ing  poet,  but  as  prose-master  he  has  matched  the  rhyth 
mic  and  "numerous"  prose  of  Ruskin,  Swinburne,  and 
Pater.  His  "eroticism"  barred  all  hope  of  fair  critical 
judgment  here  and  in  England — which  is  piddling  hypoc 
risy.  But  his  themes,  aesthetic  and  ever  poetic,  would 
have  prevented  him  from  the  glaring  badge  of  "popular 
ity."  The  most  virile  poet  of  Italy  since  Carducci,  Ga- 
briele  D'Annunzio,  is  uncrowned  poet-laureate,  but 
crowned  by  the  love  and  admiration  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  as  patriot-poet.  His  most  significant  novel 
is  not  translated.  It  deals  with  aviation.  It  is  magnifi 
cent,  and  is  entitled  Forse  che  Si  Fors  che  No.  (Perhaps 
Yes,  Perhaps  No.)  How  I  did  rave  over  Duse,  when 
she  called  for  reticence  in  criticism,  the  golden  reticence 
of  her  mysterious  and  moving  art !  With  Duse  her  first 
season  was  a  remarkable  actor,  Flavio  Ando. 

The  first  play  I  saw  in  New  York  coincided  with  my 
first  visit  to  the  city,  May,  1877.  With  my  brother, 
John,  I  went  to  Wallack' s  Theatre,  then  at  Broadway 
and  Thirteenth  Street,  and  enjoyed  Lester  Wallack  in 
"My  Awful  Dad,"  not  a  prime  work  of  dramatic  art  but 
amusing.  Wallack  was  in  his  prime.  Later  I  saw  him 
in  his  repertory,  "Rosedale"  among  the  rest.  But  I 
admired  Charles  Coghlan  the  more.  In  "Diplomacy" 
with  his  sister,  Rose  Coghlan,  you  couldn't  get  anything 
better.  John  Brougham,  John  Gilbert,  and  Madame 
Ponisi  had  seen  their  best  days.  Edwin  Booth  enthralled 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  149 

me;  Lawrence  Barrett  and  John  McCuIIough  did  not. 
William  Thompson  was  beginning  his  versatile  career, 
and  Irving  and  Terry  were  considered  the  wonders  of 
the  world.  The  first  night  at  Philadelphia  of  the  English 
actors  I  was  with  my  father.  After  Hamlet's  entrance 
my  father  nudged  me:  "As  cold  as  Macready,  without 
the  elocution";  which  simply  meant  that  like  Macready, 
Henry  Irving  was  cerebral;  as  for  his  speech  and  gait, 
they  were  distracting  to  ear  and  eye.  It  was  a  pity  that 
Richard  Mansfield  went  to  London  at  a  time  when  his 
style  was  unformed.  He  never  outlived  the  mannerisms 
he  borrowed  from  Irving,  a  deadly  example  for  him. 
Mansfield  was  a  dynamic  actor.  His  German  blood  and 
breeding,  his  cosmopolitan  culture  made  him  totally  un- 
American  in  his  methods.  He  was  born  on  the  island  of 
Heligoland  when  it  was  British.  His  mother,  Madame 
Rudensdorff,  I  knew  when  she  lived  at  the  Belvidere 
House  and  smashed  the  furniture  in  her  periodical  rages. 
She  had  been  a  Wagner  singer  in  her  day.  From  her, 
Dick  inherited  his  irritable  temper,  his  megalomania, 
and  from  her  he  acquired  his  skill  in  music.  His  father? 
Gossip  gave  him  several,  Jordan  in  Boston,  Mansfeldt 
and  Signor  Randegger,  a  fashionable  singing-master  in 
London.  I  saw  Randegger  in  the  Co  vent  Garden  Opera 
House  one  afternoon  in  1901,  when  Hans  Richter  conduct 
ed  "The  Ring."  I  asked  my  friend:  "Who  does  that  old 
gentleman  with  the  bald  head,  with  his  back  to  the  orches 
tra,  look  like? "  The  answer  promptly  came :  " Like  Rich 
ard  Mansfield's  father."  The  resemblance  was  startling — 
but  who  shall  say !  With  such  artistic  parents  he  was 
doomed  to  be  either  an  actor  or  a  singer;  he  was  both.  He 
could  sing  Schubert,  Schumann,  Brahms,  with  finish. 
Max  Heinrich  had  coached  him.  His  speaking  voice  was 


150  STEEPLEJACK 


resonant  and  varied.  Irving  never  had  such  range  of  vo 
cal  dynamics,  apart  from  the  fact  that  he  was  born  with 
an  indifferent  organ.  Richard  Mansfield  and  voice !  all 
the  rest  was  scowling  and  wire-drawn  mimicry.  Yet  he 
possessed  pathos,  and  was  effective  in  a  powerful  cres 
cendo.  He  reminded  me  of  Friedrich  Haase  without  that 
excellent  actor's  range.  Nevertheless,  Mansfield  has  not 
yet  been  replaced  in  our  theatre. 

First  heard  in  New  York  in  1897,  and  again  in  1904, 
we  welcomed  the  Hamlet  of  Forbes-Robertson  as  a  revela 
tion.  Henry  Irving's  more  intellectual  reading  was 
almost  forgotten,  and  comparisons  with  Mounet-SuIIy's 
Gallic  fanfaronades  were  out  of  the  question.  The 
Hamlet  of  Salvini  had  been  magnificent,  only  it  wasn't 
the  Prince.  Willard  was  too  phlegmatic,  Beerbohm 
Tree  too  fantastic,  and  E.  H.  Sothern  too  staccato. 
Edwin  Booth's  Hamlet  alone  outranked  Robertson's; 
finished  as  was  the  art  of  Rossi,  his  interpretation  was 
Italianate,  not  of  the  North.  However,  for  the  younger 
generation,  which  knew  not  Booth  except  as  a  ghost  of 
himself  surrounded  by  a  third-rate  company,  shabby 
scenery,  and  costume,  the  performances  of  Mr.  Robert 
son  proved  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  charm.  He  was  a 
gentle  Danish  Prince,  never  truculent,  seldom  militant. 
The  swiftness  and  wholly  modern  quality  did  not  conceal 
the  inexorable  fact  that  no  man  has  ever  played  in  its 
entirety  the  Prince  that  Shakespeare  drew;  that  an  ex 
perienced  artist  knowing  this,  is  forced  to  compro 
mise;  that  in  the  case  of  Robertson,  temperamen 
tal  bias  led  him  into  the  only  path  for  himself.  Of 
the  melancholic  type,  in  facial  expression  sensitive,  a 
scholarly  amiable  man,  perhaps  by  nature  somewhat  of 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  151 

a  pessimist — he  was,  above  all,  an  actor  endowed  with 
imagination.  These  qualities  pressed  into  service  by  a 
loving  devotion  to  his  art  and  an  exalted  sincerity  of 
purpose  lifted  his  work  to  a  high  plane.  He  had  at  his 
command  a  supple  mechanism.  And  he  was  first  the 
elocutionist,  then  the  actor.  Never  electrifying  his  audi 
tors,  he  managed  his  transitional  passages  smoothly, 
without  robbing  them  of  variety  or  emphasis.  He  modu 
lated  his  effects  without  abruptness  or  violence.  Sweetly 
morose,  ever  luminous,  and  in  style  largely  moulded,  never 
staccato  nor  colloquial,  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
and  of  rare  personal  distinction,  the  Hamlet  of  Forbes- 
Robertson  was  the  most  appealing  since  the  day  of  Booth. 
Mr.  Robertson  was  not  the  mad  Prince,  not  the  histrionic 
maniac  nor  the  pathologic  case  fit  for  the  psychiatrist's 
clinic,  which  some  players  have  made  Hamlet.  He  was 
sane,  so  exquisitely  sane,  that  while  the  rude  buffets  of  a 
cruel  and  swirling  fortune  at  times  shook  his  spiritual 
nature  to  its  centre,  yet  they  never  quite  toppled  it  over. 
This  Hamlet  knew  a  hawk  from  a  hernshaw.  I  may  add 
that  there  is  much  nonsense  in  the  statement  that  Ham 
let  cannot  be  altogether  badly  acted,  that  it  is  self-play 
ing,  when  in  reality  it  is  the  most  abused  character  in 
the  Shakespearean  gallery.  As  for  Kipling's  sentimental 
"The  Light  That  Failed,"  while  Mr.  Robertson  exhibited 
technical  skill  and  tender  emotion,  the  role  was  beneath 
his  powers.  Yet  in  that  and  the  sloppy  Jerome  play  he 
made  fame  and  fortune. 

I  have  mentioned  Kipling.  I  came  up  from  Paris  to 
Rouen  one  morning  with  him.  I  was  about  to  pay  a 
visit  to  the  tomb  of  Saint  Flaubert.  When  I  alighted 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kipling  had  taken  their  seats  in  the  dining- 
car  for  the  midday  dejeuner.  The  window  was  open  so 


1 52  STEEPLEJACK 

I  said:  "Mr.  Kipling,  you  should  have  stopped  at  Rouen 
and  made  a  propitiatory  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of 
Flaubert  in  the  Monumental  Cemetery,  if  for  nothing 
else  but  to  expiate  your  literary  sins."  Mrs.  Kipling 
smiled — her  brother,  Wolcott  Balestier,  was  an  old  friend 
of  mine  when  he  was  on  The  Sun — but  Rudyard  of  the 
Clan  Kipling,  preserved  a  stony  mask.  The  train  moved. 
No  doubt  he  took  me  for  a  harmless  lunatic,  and  perhaps 
he  was  right.  I  tried  to  stir  his  artistic  conscience,  and 
I  knew  of  nothing  more  efficacious  than  a  humble 
prayer  pronounced  before  the  Flaubert  commemoration 
tablet  in  the  Pare  Solferino  or  at  the  grave  of  the  Holy 
Gustave.  A  trip  down  the  Seine  to  Croisset,  where  is 
the  Flaubert  Museum,  would  give  the  finishing  touch. 

In  The  Pathos  of  Distance  I  made  a  little  study  of  the 
Violas  I  had  seen,  beginning  with  Adelaide  Neilson  in 
1877,  down  to  Wynne  Matthison.  At  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre,  Miss  Neilson  was  supported  by  Eben  Plympton, 
the  Sebastian;  Walcot,  Malvolio;  McDonough,  Sir  Toby; 
Howard,  Sir  Andrew;  Hemple,  the  Clown;  Miss  Barbour, 
the  Maria.  At  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  Mr.  Daly 
revived  "Twelfth  Night"  in  1877,  with  Miss  Neilson  as 
Viola,  Charles  Fisher,  Malvolio.  Barton  Hill,  George 
Clarke,  Harry  Dixey  have  played  Malvolio,  and  can  we 
forget  Irving?  Charles  Walcot  was  my  first  Malvolio. 
The  Violas  were  Mrs.  Scott-Siddons,  Ellen  Terry,  Fanny 
Davenport,  Ada  Rehan,  Marie  Wainwright,  Helena 
Modjeska — most  poetic,  after  Neilson's — Viola  Allen 
and  Julia  Marlowe.  In  her  early  days,  Mrs.  John  Drew 
played  Viola.  It  was  at  a  reading  that  I  heard  Mrs. 
Scott-Siddon's  Viola.  She  was  beautiful  to  gaze  upon. 
Miss  Marlowe  was  charming  and  Miss  Matthison  a  Viola 
in  the  mode  minor.  Her  voice  was  noble,  though  not  so 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  153 

caressing  as  the  organ  of  rare  Julia  Marlowe.     Ah !  the 
pathos  of  distance. 

Through  the  avenue  of  my  memory  there  silently 
passes  a  throng  of  names.  The  members  of  the  Union 
Square  Stock  Company,  of  Wallack's,  of  the  Madison 
Square — during  the  auspicious  reign  of  Daniel  Frohman 
—of  Daly's,  of  the  Empire.  I  suppose  the  complaint  of 
grumbling  after  forty  is  chronic  with  critics.  The  palmy 
days !  we  sigh,  and  some  day  the  present  generation  will 
do  the  same — Ah !  those  were  the  palmy  days  of  George 
Cohan,  Sam  Bernard  and  Louis  Mann !  When  the  Har- 
rigan  and  Hart  company  dissolved,  we  thought  no  one 
could  replace  Annie  Yeamans  or  Johnny  Wild — and  no 
one  has.  The  Charles  Hoyt  regime  set  in,  and  it  was 
amusing  enough;  after  a  lapse,  George  Cohan  appeared 
on  the  scene,  and  seizing  the  Time-Spirit  by  the  horns 
brought  the  beast  to  its  knees.  There  is  a  divining  sense 
given  to  a  few  lucky  mortals,  and  clever  George  possesses 
it.  The  hour  was  ripe  for  vulgarity,  and  as  there  is  noth 
ing  so  catching  as  vulgarity,  presently  the  theatrical 
world  is  wholly  given  over  to  it.  The  flim-flam  film 
theatre  completed  the  downfall  of  the  drama.  Yet,  the 
theatre  was  as  vulgar  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  though 
the  saving  clause  was  the  superior  actors  and  actresses. 
The  comic-opera  stage,  too;  where  are  the  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan  operas  and  their  interpreters?  Where  the  Bos- 
tonians?  Think  of  "Robin  Hood"  in  its  pristine  glory: 
Henry  Clay  Barnabee,  Tom  Karl — I  remember  him  in 
opera  during  the  early  Pappenheim-Charles  Adams  days 
on  Broad  Street — McDonald,  George  Frothingham,  one 
of  the  best  low  comedians  in  the  country,  Eugene  Cowles, 
Jessie  Bartlett  Davis — she  sang  "Genevieve"  at  Opertis' 
Garden  in  1876,  and  her  admirers  were  Governor  Bunn, 


154  STEEPLEJACK 

and  Will  Holmes,  the  barytone.  "Oh  Promise  Me"  came 
later.  Marie  Stone-McDonald  was  a  favourite.  And 
let  us  not  forget  good  old  Sam  Studley  in  the  con 
ductor's  chair.  Victor  Herbert  and  his  sparkling  Gallic 
music  is  still  with  us.  Yet  we  had  great  fun  in  the  days 
of  the  McCauII  Company  with  Delia  Fox,  Camille  D'Ar- 
ville,  Pauline  Hall,  Jeff  De  Angelis,  De  Wolf  Hopper, 
Digby  Bell,  Laura  Joyce,  Mathilda  Cottrelly,  Marie 
Geistinger,  and  many  others ! 

Mary  Anderson  never  profoundly  touched  me.  I  re 
call  Laura  Burt,  Mrs.  John  T.  Raymond  (Marie  Gordon), 
Rose  Wood,  dainty  Madeline  Lucette,  afterwards  mar 
ried  to  J.  H.  Ryley,  and  Nate  Salsbury.  Jacques  Offen 
bach  conducted  his  music  at  the  Broad  Street  Garden. 
A  genius!  Did  you  hear  Hughey  Dougherty's  story 
about  inviting  a  friend  over  the  telephone  to  a  drink,  and 
going  down  Eleventh  Street,  found  the  whole  fire  de 
partment  in  front  of  the  bar?  "If  I  had  spoken  louder," 
said  Hughey,  then  the  funniest  "burnt  cork  artist/'  "I 
would  have  had  to  set  'em  up  for  the  entire  City  Govern 
ment."  Joe  Emmet  was  on  the  rampage  those  days. 
The  death  of  Miss  Neilson  at  Paris  made  the  world 
wonder.  But  it  was  not  suicide,  Edward  Compton  told 
us.  A  blood-vessel  burst  in  her  intestines.  The  iced- 
milk  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  death.  Dion  Boucicault 
filled  the  papers  with  his  plays  and  matrimonial  adven 
ture.  Agnes  Robertson  left  him  and  sued  for  divorce. 
Charles  Backus,  of  Birch,  Wambold  and  Backus,  died  in 
1883.  What  a  crowd  he  could  draw!  The  Hanlon-Lees 
dazzled  us.  Minnie  Palmer  attracted  us.  Minnie  Hauk 
painted  her  naked  legs  green,  said  Parisian  newspapers, 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  155 

when  she  couldn't  get  tights  to  fit  her.  It  was  in  Auber's 
"Carlo  Broschi,"  and  she  had  a  male  part.  It's  too  bad 
to  be  true.  Clara  Morris  had  power,  pathos,  but  a  queer 
pronunciation.  Caroline  Richings  Bernard  and  her  opera 
company  were  much  admired.  Emma  Abbott  and  her 
famous  "kiss"  did  not  impress  me.  Harry  Richmond 
was  a  capital  comedian.  Maude  Harrison,  Charles 
Thorne,  Frank  Mayo,  Lotta,  Sara  Jewett,  Kate  Claxton, 
Agnes  Leonard,  Frank  Bangs,  Estelle  Clayton,  Stella 
Boniface,  Admiral  Tom  Thumb,  and  Commodore  Nutt; 
(Lilliputians  we  call  them  now,  then  they  were  "dwarfs") 
Sadie  Martinet,  Katherine  Lewis,  Minnie  Maddern, 
May  (not  Fay)  Templeton,  Marie  Prescott,  Harry  Beck 
ett,  Jennie  Hughes,  Jeffreys-Lewis,  Cora  Tanner,  Effie 
Ellsler,  Louis  and  Alice  Harrison  in  "Photos" — stop!  I 
could  go  on  for  hours  reeling  off  a  litany  of  names.  Wil 
liam  Warren  was  a  sterling  comedian;  Kate  Castleton, 
Vernona  Jarbeau  and  the  French  group,  Aimee,  Judic, 
Rhea,  Theo,  Paola  Marie — sister  to  the  celebrated  Galli- 
Marie — Angele  and  Victor  Capoul — "Count  Johannes" 
had  just  died.  The  star  of  Maurice  Grau  was  ascend 
ing.  Madame  Frida  Ashforth,  in  opera  then,  tells  me 
that  she  was  engaged  to  Antonio  Barili,  the  singer  and 
half-brother  of  Patti.  She  was  a  chum  of  Adelina 
from  1855  to  1860.  The  Barili-Patti  household  lived 
next  door  to  Frida  Ashforth  on  Broadway  at  Fourth 
Street.  Caterina  Barili,  who  had  been  celebrated  in  her 
day,  led  her  daughters  an  unhappy  dance.  She  was 
tyrannical  and  bad-tempered.  Adelina,  after  missing  her 
vocal  practice,  would  be  chased  over  the  house  into  the 
back  yard  by  the  terrible  old  woman,  and  when  she 
evaded  her,  Addie  would  wriggle  derisive  fingers,  her 


156  STEEPLEJACK 

thumb  at  her  nose.  Charming  idyll  of  childhood !  Her 
sister,  Amelia  Strakosch,  was,  according  to  the  high  vocal 
authority  I  have  quoted,  not  much  of  a  singer. 

On  West  Twenty-fifth  Street  there  was  a  French 
boarding-house  kept  by  a  couple,  M.  and  Madame  Felix. 
The  guests  were  mainly  theatrical  folk,  with  a  sprinkling 
of  musicians  and  writers.  The  table  was  good,  the  wines 
cheap,  and  always  was  there  a  little  poker  game  in  the 
private  apartment  of  M.  Felix.  I  lived  there  for  years. 
It  was  in  the  heart  of  theatre-land,  and  thus  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  David  Belasco,  who,  with  his 
lovable  family,  occupied  a  suite  on  the  same  floor  as  I. 
I  verily  believe  that  Balzac  would  have  wished  for  noth 
ing  better  to  describe  than  the  Maison  Felix.  The  com 
pany  was  lively,  there  were  pretty  women,  jolly  men. 
Occasionally — but  not  too  often,  or  too  openly — a  basket 
containing  letters  would  be  let  down  from  an  upper 
story  on  a  string.  There  were  few  ructions,  nevertheless, 
the  atmosphere  was  worthy  of  De  Maupassant.  I  got 
into  the  habit  of  taking  midnight  walks  with  David 
Belasco.  He  was  stage  producer  then  for  the  Frohmans, 
and  I  was  writing  about  the  theatre.  D.  B.,  as  we  called 
him,  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  stage.  As  he  drank 
his  milk  he  would  urge  me  to  play-making;  but  I  hadn't 
the  vocation,  and  heeded  him  not.  Have  I  written 
poetry?  Yes,  waste-basket.  Have  I  written  plays? 
Yes.  Locked  in  the  secrecy  of  my  desk.  However,  Mr. 
Belasco  was  right.  One  successful  play  and  the  author 
is  on  Boulevard  Easy.  I  have  a  half-dozen  friends,  old 
newspaper  men,  who  bother  themselves  with  cutting 
coupons,  not  producing  "copy."  Successful  playwriters, 
and  sensible  humans  they  are.  A  funny  affair  at  the 
Maison  Felix  was  a  farewell  dinner  given  by  his  friends 


DRAMATIC  CRITICS  157 

to  a  singer  about  to  launch  himself  into  the  perilous  sea 
of  matrimony  with  a  celebrated  singing  actress.  With 
the  exception  of  myself  probably  every  man  Jack  at  the 
table  had  been  on  friendly  terms  with  the  bride.  Speeches 
were  made.  Toasts  were  drunk.  The  bridegroom  was 
overwhelmed  by  emotion.  Did  he  guess  the  truth?  I 
never  made  after-dinner  speeches,  but  urged  by  strong 
hands,  I  got  on  my  legs  and  began:  "Brothers,  I 
might  say  brothers-in-law"—!  was  ejected.  Luckily  the 
bridegroom  was  slightly  deaf.  Talk  about  De  Maupas 
sant  !  Plays  and  fiction  have  one  gripping  theme :  Did 
she?  It  is  the  only  theme  that  interests.  I  was  so  im 
pressed  by  the  evening  that  I  wrote  a  "prose-poem" 
about  it.  It  makes  me  think  of  the  two  young  women 
in  Paris  who  found  themselves  at  a  monkey  cage  in  the 
Zoo.  They  were  experienced  members  of  a  very  ancient 
profession,  and  as  the  agile  and  grotesque  animals  were 
playing  all  sorts  of  silly  tricks,  one  girl  said  to  the  other: 
"Give  them  clothes  with  money  in  their  pockets  and  they 
would  be  real  men."  Did  I  ever  tell  you  the  witticism 
of  Maurice  Barrymore  concerning  a  fiasco  made  by  a 
foreign-born  actress  of  a  certain  reputation  at  the  Man 
hattan  Opera  House?  Barry  supported  the  lady,  whose 
voice  was  not  powerful  enough  for  the  big  auditorium. 
I  asked  him  how  she  succeeded — I  was  at  another  theatre. 
"Obscene  but  not  heard,"  he  answered.  I  have  told  you 
that  I  knew  Willie  Wilde,  Oscar's  brother.  He  was  a 
companionable  pagan.  Every  ten  minutes  he  would 
light  a  fresh  cigarette,  every  fifteen  ask  for  another 
drink.  He  invariably  preluded  with  "I  have  a  zoological 
feeling  that  I  may  be  thirsty."  Getting  up  at  five  in 
the  afternoon  finally  got  on  the  nerves  of  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Frank  Leslie,  and  she  divorced  the  poor  chap,  who  did 


1 58  STEEPLEJACK 

hate  to  work.  I  saw  much  of  Edward  MacDowell,  an 
admirable  friend,  and  I  wear  on  my  watch-chain  a  medal 
of  Franz  Liszt,  dated  Weimar,  1880,  and  given  to  Ed 
ward  by  the  master.  After  his  death  Mrs.  MacDowell 
presented  it  to  me. 


XVIII 
EARLY  IBSEN 

I  have  always  detested  propagandists  while  admitting 
their  usefulness.  I  loathe  "movements,"  cliques,  cen- 
acles,  anarchs  who  don't  "anarchise,"  but  only  bellow. 
I  wrote  about  Nietzsche  as  early  as  1888  and  Ibsen  still 
earlier,  yet  I  was  not  an  Ibsenite.  The  two  Ibsen  pioneers 
here  were  Professor  H.  H.  Boyesen,  of  Columbia  Univer 
sity,  and  William  Morton  Payne,  then  editor  of  The 
Dial.  Mr.  Payne  translated  and  finished  Jaeger's  Life 
of  Ibsen.  In  England,  Edmund  Gosse  and  William 
Archer  were  the  sponsors  of  Ibsen.  But  I  fought  in 
the  critical  trenches  for  the  new  art  from  the  Land  of  the 
Midnight  Whiskers.  And  it  was  a  hard  battle  as  the 
entire  press  was  dead  against  him.  We  took  our  the 
atrical  fashions  from  England  and  great  was  the  name  of 
Clement  Scott.  An  honourable  exception  to  the  preju 
diced  critics  was  Charles  Henry  Meltzer,  who  had  trans 
lated  Hauptmann's  "Hannele,"  and  for  the  Sotherns 
"The  Sunken  Bell."  To-day  I  find  Ibsen  rather  trying. 
"A  Doll's  House,"  "An  Enemy  of  the  People,"  for  in 
stance.  Problem  plays  soon  stale.  Consider  the  twaddle 
foisted  on  an  unsuspicious  public  by  Shaw — "Mrs.  War 
ren's  Profession"  sounds  as  if  written  for  the  kindergarten. 
And  "A  Doll's  House" — the  best  Nora  I  saw  was  Agnes 
Sorma,  with  Rejane  a  good  second.  Mrs.  Fiske  and  the 
Russian,  Nazimova,  are  well  remembered.  The  play  is 
dating.  Nowadays  no  woman  would  leave  her  children 
in  that  dreary  door-slamming  coda.  I  wrote  of  it  thirty 

159 


i6o  STEEPLEJACK 

years  ago  that  the  slamming  of  that  front  door  by  Nora 
was  heard  the  world  over.  It  was  the  tocsin  of  female 
revolt.  What  nonsense!  As  young  men  are  getting 
scarcer  owing  to  the  war,  it  would  be  Helmer  who  might 
go  away,  not  his  wife.  There  are  always  plenty  of 
women  waiting  outside.  Duse  asked  Ibsen's  permission 
to  change  the  original  ending,  and  after  considerable 
grumbling  the  Norwegian  dramatist  consented.  The 
new  ending  was  thus :  Helmer  stunned  by  his  loss  is  won 
dering  if  the  "miracle"  will  ever  take  place.  Time 
elapses.  Suddenly  Nora  enters,  radiant,  a  bundle  in 
her  hand.  "Torvald  !  Torvald  !"  she  cries.  "The  mir 
acle!  Didies  for  baby  are  marked  down  half-price. 
The  miracle !"  Quick  curtain.  The  late  E.  A.  Dithmar, 
critic  of  The  Times,  wittily  named  "A  Doll's  House" 
and  "Margaret  Fleming" —by  Herne — "The  Didy 
Drama." 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Henrik  Ibsen  that  the  Ibsenites 
discovered  him.  In  this  misfortune  he  keeps  company 
with  Browning  and  Meredith.  There  are  dark  places  in 
the  heart  of  every  poet,  yet  these  obscurities  should  not 
be  hailed  as  illuminations.  Long  ago  Daddy  Ibsen's 
plays  were  seized  by  the  propagandists;  at  first  by  the 
socialists,  then  the  individualists,  then  by  the  women  in 
search  of  a  message.  Now  the  women  have  cooled  off  a 
little  in  their  devotion.  Ibsen  at  a  banquet  in  Christiania 
told  the  ladies  present  that  their  place  was  in  the  home. 
Shades  of  Nora  Helmer !  He  said  that  he  was  primarily 
interested  in  them  as  human  beings,  not  in  their  sex  or 
their  "wrongs."  But  the  mystery-mongers  found  him 
too  tempting  a  subject  for  their  busy  exegetical  pens, 
hence  the  huge  and  absolutely  useless  literature  that 
has  accumulated  dealing  with  the  "meanings"  of  his 


EARLY   IBSEN  161 


works,  when  his  chief  significance  is  as  a  creator  of 
characters  and  in  his  dramatic  construction.  Techni 
cally  he  stems  from  France;  the  influences  of  Scribe  and 
Dumas  fils  are  not  to  be  denied.  But  the  unhappy 
man  fell  into  the  clutches  of  the  college  professor  and 
exegesis  slew  him.  To-day  he  is  played  with  the  vivacity 
of  an  undertaker  at  a  preacher's  funeral.  Every  phrase 
is  packed  with  esoteric  meaning,  and  the  itching  to  dis 
cover  strange  symbols  in  his  dialogue  causes  an  atmos 
phere  of  gloom  and  apathy;  instead  of  a  brisk  tempo, 
the  players  utter  their  lines  as  if  the  earth  was  on  the 
edge  of  dissolution.  Ibsen's  dialogue  is  natural  or  noth 
ing.  He  is  a  reader  of  the  human  heart.  And  when  he 
is  in  the  roster  of  all  stock  companies,  as  he  is  on  the 
continent,  then  he  may  be  appreciated.  But  I  doubt  it. 
He  makes  you  think  as  well  as  feel.  Not  with  impunity 
can  genius  benefit  mankind,  has  slyly  remarked  Rodin. 


XIX 
PICTURES 

After  writing  about  art  on  The  Sun  for  a  year  I  made 
pilgrimages  to  the  principal  art  shrines  of  Europe.  I 
had  a  brief  passion  for  the  gorgeous  canvases  of  Monti- 
celli,  and  while  it  would  be  impossible  to  see  them  all — 
he  painted  one  a  day  for  his  absinthe — I  saw  the  best. 
I  went  to  the  south  of  France  as  far  as  Marseilles,  and 
discovered  some  notable  pictures.  Then — a  reaction,  I 
fancy — I  fell  in  love  for  the  hundredth  time  with  Ver- 
meer.  I  actually  saw  thirty  of  his  thirty-three  or  four 
masterpieces,  missing  only  one  "important"  example, 
somewhere  in  Scotland,  a  Christ  composition.  The 
Rembrandts  are  not  easily  traced,  but  when  I  got  as 
far  as  the  Hermitage  self-portrait  at  Petrograd  I  called 
a  halt.  In  New  York  I  wrote  much  of  the  so-called 
Washington  Square  School — Lawson,  Glackens,  Sloan, 
George  Luks,  and  the  group  that  followed  them.  They 
had  a  hard  battle  but  they  "arrived."  The  group 
named  uThe  Ten,"  which  gave  annual  exhibitions 
at  the  Montross  Gallery,  had  some  strong  painters: 
the  late  William  M.  Chase,  Childe  Hassam,  Willard 
Metcalf,  and  Alden  Weir.  Arthur  B.  Davies  is  to 
my  way  of  thinking  the  most  individual  artist  we 
have  to-day  in  this  country.  He  has  vision,  and  is  a 
master  of  his  material.  When  Alfred  Stieglitz  opened 
his  little  Photo-Secession  Gallery  at  291  Fifth  Avenue 
he  practically  inaugurated  a  new  movement  in  art.  The 
exhibitions  of  Independents  that  I  had  been  visiting  at 

162 


PICTURES  163 


Paris  for  ten  years  were  suddenly  transplanted  to  New 
York.  We  were  shown  Matisse,  Picasso,  Picabia,  Bran- 
cusi,  Cezanne,  Gauguin,  Van  Gogh.  Their  artistic  im 
pact  on  the  younger  generation  was  marked.  We  had 
John  Marin,  Rockwell  Kent,  Samuel  Halpert,  Marsden 
Hartley,  Weber,  Jo  Davidson,  and  Walkowitz.  Robert 
Henri  held  aloof  from  the  movement;  he  was  self-con 
tained  and  influenced  more  by  Goya.  The  mystic,  Albert 
P.  Ryder,  has  passed  away  but  his  spirit  lives. 

Not  to  go  back  to  the  deluge,  there  was  a  time  when 
Bouguereau  occupied  a  pedestal  in  New  York,  and  his 
worshippers  went  to  the  Hoffman  House  bar  to  stare  at 
his  meretricious  "Nymphs  Pursued  by  Satyrs.'*  AH 
manners  of  schools  have  had  their  little  hour  of  triumph. 
Fortuny  and  Meissonier,  Corot  and  Millet,  Troyon  and 
Turner,  Whistler,  too;  and  after  the  Barbizons,  Manet, 
Renoir;  also  Bastien-Lepage.  Even  in  New  York  as  late 
as  1906  I  found,  to  my  amazement,  that  Manet  was  con 
sidered  terribly  audacious;  that  he  was  neither  an  expert 
draughtsman  nor  a  colourist.  Stupendous !  And  then 
the  deluge:  Cubists,  crazy  clowns,  Futurists,  Neo-Impres- 
sionists,  and  a  swelling  host  of  other  charlatans  and  medi 
ocrities.  Paul  Cezanne  had  intervened.  He  became  the 
rage.  Spry  collectors  pursued  him  (in  the  haunt  of  every 
collector  there  is  a  bargain  counter).  Dealers  yearned  for 
him.  Elderly  painters  execrated  his  name.  Guileless 
folk  pronounced  him  "Suzanne"  and  secretly  wondered 
why  he  is  so  ugly.  And  though  not  "the  greatest  painter 
of  all,"  nevertheless  his  was  a  philosophic  temperament. 
The  chiefest  misconception  of  Cezanne  is  that  of  the 
theoretical  fanatics  who  not  only  proclaim  him  chef 
d'ecole — which  he  is — but  also  declare  him  to  be  the 
greatest  painter  that  wielded  a  brush  since  the  Byzan- 


164  STEEPLEJACK 

tines.  The  nervous,  shrinking  man  I  saw  years  ago  at 
Aix-Ia-Provence  would  have  been  astounded  if  he  had 
known  that  he  would  be  saluted  by  such  uncritical  rhap 
sodies.  If  ever  an  axiom  is  contradicted  in  practice  it  is 
that  there  is  no  disputing  tastes.  As  if  we  don't  spend 
part  of  our  existence  battling  with  other  people's  preju 
dices.  Note,  also,  that  the  other  fellow  is  always  "prej 
udiced"  in  favour  of  his  own  opinions,  usually  considered 
by  us  as  stupid  or  narrow.  Our  judgments  are  well- 
nigh  infallible,  and  our  special  mission  is  to  set  our  neigh 
bour  right.  This  conflict  is  perpetual.  It  makes  life 
bearable.  In  matters  of  art  I  find  the  same  intolerance. 
Because  I  like  Henri  Matisse,  I  am  told  that  I  suffer 
from  optical  degeneration.  The  same  was  said  of  me 
when  I  admired  Manet,  Monet,  Degas.  Matisse  has 
confessed:  "I  condense  the  signification  of  the  body  by 
looking  for  the  essential  lines,"  which  is  slightly  different 
from  the  cockney  Cubists  and  their  chatter  about  "sig 
nificant  form."  Mr.  Berenson  has  pronounced  Matisse 
to  be  "a  magnificent  draughtsman  and  a  great  designer." 
The  Chinese  are  his  masters,  also  the  masters  of  the 
world  in  art,  though  we  are  only  beginning  to  find  it  out. 
Japan,  which  originates  nothing,  borrowed  its  art  from 
the  older  kingdom.  I  don't  care  whether  Matisse  is  a 
Poster-Impressionist,  a  sensitivist,  expressivist,  or  a  snark, 
but  I  do  know  that  he  is  a  master  of  line  that,  as  Frank 
Mather,  Jr.,  asserts,  has  had  no  superior  since  the  time  of 
PoIIajuolo  and  the  Florentines.  What  if  the  concu 
binage  of  his  colours  screams  in  rhythms  that  make  the 
flesh  creep?  There  is  power,  profound  sophistication, 
subtle  rhythm,  all  couched  in  novel  terms.  He  can  be 
suavely  harmonious.  He  is  sometimes  as  sunny  and 
simple  as  Mozart  or  Monet.  Since  the  death  of  Ce- 


PICTURES  165 


zanne,  Gauguin,  and  Van  Gogh,  Matisse  is  the  master 
of  the  field.  But  Cezanne  is  the  enthroned  pontiff  of 
the  modern  pantheon. 

It  was  at  Saratoga  I  met  a  man  who  called  himself  "a 
common  gambler/'  In  reality  he  was  uncommon.  Sel 
dom  was  one  in  his  "profession"  as  cultivated.  A 
pagan,  he  was  refreshing  in  his  freedom  from  hypoc 
risy.  Clerical  in  appearance,  so  clerical  that  James 
Whistler,  who  painted  his  portrait,  and  the  artist  he 
most  admired  and  cherished  among  the  moderns,  had 
nicknamed  him  "His  Reverence."  The  portrait  bore 
that  title  when  exhibited.  He  had  no  illusion  as  to  his 
social  position,  nor  was  he  a  snob  among  sports.  When 
he  alluded  to  his  calling  he  was  neither  shrinking  nor 
vainglorious.  He  maintained  that  his  was  the  next  old 
est  of  professions.  Place  aux  dames !  He  asserted  that 
a  man  had  a  run  for  his  money  when  he  gambled;  at 
least  he  could  see  his  cash  planked  down  on  the  green, 
see  it  swallowed  by  the  turn  of  the  wheel,  or  rapt  away 
by  an  unlucky  card;  whereas  on  the  "Street"  you  sel 
dom  see  the  colour  of  your  bank-notes  after  they  leave 
your  hands.  "And,"  continued  my  friend,  "the  game 
on  Wall  Street  is  not  always  as  fair  as  at  Saratoga,  New 
port,  or  Forty-fourth  Street."  Yet  this  hardheaded 
money-getting  man  was  soft-hearted  at  the  proper  time. 
In  1906,  during  the  palmy  days  of  his  Casino,  I  saw  him 
send  away  a  young  fool  who  had  whimperingly  confessed 
that  the  money  he  had  staked  at  roulette  was  not  his;  in 
a  word,  stolen.  The  gambler  said:  "Here  is  your  money, 
young  man,  return  it  to  the  bank,"  adding  with  an 
ironical  smile,  "Go,  and  sin  no  more!"  But  when  a 
sporting  millionaire  wished  to  play,  then  the  wheel 


1 66  STEEPLEJACK 

whizzed  its  merriest.  A  Robin  Hood  of  the  Green  was 
our  gambler.  His  love  of  pictures  and  old  furniture 
became  a  veritable  passion.  His  taste  was  impeccable, 
his  judgment  seldom  at  fault.  His  chief  god  in  art  was 
Velasquez.  We  always  called  him  The  Spaniard.  He 
bought  Whistlers  at  a  time  when  it  was  a  courageous 
act.  I  often  crossed  with  him  to  Europe  and  his  good 
graces  introduced  me  to  Whistler,  who  was  exceedingly 
uncertain  in  likes  and  dislikes.  He  liked  the  gambler 
and  was  not  rude  to  his  friends.  When  the  Whistler 
collection  was  shown  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
we  were  amazed  at  its  quality,  yet  he  had  no  illusions 
concerning  Butterfly  James.  "He  will  live  by  his  etch 
ings,  not  his  pictures,"  an  opinion  I  had  heard  from  the 
mouth  of  William  M.  Laffan,  an  expert  who  predicted 
that  owing  to  his  poisonous  paint  the  canvases  were 
doomed  to  blackening  and  desiccation.  This  prophecy 
is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  being  fulfilled.  Charitable  and,  ac 
cording  to  his  lights  honourable,  my  gambling  friend  was 
a  complex  of  confusing  and  contradictory  traits.  A  psy 
chologist  would  have  enjoyed  as  I  did  unwinding  the  tan 
gled  skein  of  his  character.  When  his  wonderful  Whistlers 
were  sold,  and  with  them  his  prized  Sheraton  furniture — 
I  studied  them  at  his  Madison  Avenue  home,  and  also 
at  his  house  across  the  street  from  the  St.  Regis — the 
art  world  was  aflame  with  curiosity.  He  died  of  a  fall 
in  the  subway,  and  left  more  friends  than  he  knew.  His 
name  was — need  I  tell  you? — Richard  Canfield. 

While  writing  of  old-time  theatrical  topics,  I  forgot 
to  relate  a  story  about  Adelaide  Neilson  and  her  man 
ager,  Frederick  Schwab.  There  had  been  some  gossip 


PICTURES  167 


when  the  "star"  went  to  San  Francisco.  A  report  of 
their  matrimonial  engagement  was  circulated.  As  Miss 
Neilson  was  not  on  the  best  of  terms  with  Schwab,  she 
threatened  to  discharge  him  if  he  didn't  contradict  the 
rumour.  He  answered:  "I  don't  know  who  ought  to 
get  most  angry  about  the  gossip.  If  you  feel  yourself 
disgraced  by  it,  what  should  I  feel?"  Which  was  the 
retort  courteous.  Miss  Neilson  was  fond  of  Schwab  be 
cause  he  was  the  first  man  to  greet  her  on  her  arrival  in 
New  York.  Years  afterwards  when  he  was  manager  for 
Vladimir  de  Pachmann,  the  slightly  eccentric  pianist — 
I  think  in  1890 — he  had  a  trying  time  to  keep  the  little 
artist  in  order.  One  morning  at  Schuberth's  music  store 
on  Union  Square,  Fred  Schwab  entered.  De  Pachmann 
(his  right  name  is  Waldemar  Bachmann  without  the 
"De"),  who  had  been  playing,  rushed  to  his  manager  cry 
ing,  "I  love  you  so  much  I  must  kiss  you!"  He  kissed 
Schwab  on  the  neck,  not  a  kiss  of  peace,  but  a  bite,  so 
nasty,  indeed,  that  the  manager  had  to  wear  a  silk 
scarf  to  hide  the  teethmarks.  He  did  not  have  de 
Pachmann  arrested  for  mayhem — surely  a  Chopinzee 
then — but,  so  it  was  whispered,  made  an  iron-clad 
contract  for  the  next  season,  by  the  terms  of  which 
the  manager  would  not  be  altogether  the  loser.  At 
the  time  I  remarked  of  de  Pachmann  that  his  "Bach 
was  worse  than  his  bite."  At  a  piano  recital  in  old  Chick- 
ering  Hall,  given  by  his  wife  and  pupil,  Margaret  Okey 
— now  the  widow  of  the  French  advocate,  Ferdinand 
Labori,  counsel  for  Dreyfus — de  Pachmann  after  up 
roariously  applauding  her,  became  censorious  when  she 
finished  a  Henselt  etude  (Thanksgiving  after  the  Storm). 
A  sharp  hiss  was  heard  in  the  auditorium.  It  was  from 


i68  STEEPLEJACK 

the  lips  of  her  husband.  Oscar  Hammerstein,  I  remem 
ber,  had  hissed  a  performer  in  his  Manhattan  Opera 
House,  but  for  a  husband  to  hiss  his  wife  in  public  we 
must  go  to  the  pages  of  "Wives  of  Artists,"  by  Alphonse 
Daudet. 


XX 
NEW  YORK  IN  FICTION 

Anyone  with  good  red  blood  in  his  veins  has  made  in 
London  and  Paris  fascinating  pilgrimages  to  the  fic 
titious  abodes  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  Balzac,  Zola, 
and  De  Maupassant.  Even  the  less  popular  Flaubert 
has  become  an  object  of  veneration,  and  the  places  men 
tioned  in  his  Sentimental  Education — a  vast  reconstruc 
tion  of  Paris  in  '48,  or  the  tomb  of  the  real  Emma  Bo- 
vary,  are  visited  by  pious  people.  New  York,  noisy,  dirty, 
politics-ridden,  her  mighty  flanks  gashed  by  greed  is 
daily  reborn  in  the  imagination  of  her  admirers.  Walt 
Whitman  sang  her  praises,  Charles  Dickens  registered 
her  defects.  But  there  she  stands.  Take  her  or  leave 
her,  it  is  all  the  same  to  our  Lady  of  Towers.  Love  her 
as  did  O.  Henry,  and  from  that  love  something  is  bound 
to  result.  Magic,  mud,  moonlight,  money,  misery,  and 
multitudes  may  be  discovered  as  befits  the  temperament 
of  each  wooer  of  her  favours.  Such  men  as  Poe  and 
Sydney  Porter  (O.  Henry)  found  her  a  "stony-hearted 
stepmother,"  yet  contrived  to  weave  from  their  defeats 
magical  carpets  that  transport  their  readers  on  the  wings 
of  fancy.  When  the  town  was  young,  Washington  Ir 
ving,  Cooper,  Poe,  and  their  contemporaries  recall  to  us 
Battery  Park,  Bowling  Green,  and  old  Wall  Street.  There 
is  the  later  Wall  Street  of  Edwin  Lefevre,  Frank  Norris, 
and  Edith  Wharton — in  Custom  of  the  Country. 
Wall  Street  was  also  visited  by  Robert  W.  Chambers, 
David  Graham  Phillips,  George  Barr  McCutcheon,  Rex 

169 


1 7o  STEEPLEJACK 

Beach,  Owen  Johnson,  Samuel  Merwin,  and  Thomas 
Dixon.  It  is  the  most  alluring  lane  in  the  world.  Many 
writers  who  enter  it  emerge  without  spoils  literary  or 
otherwise,  yet  not  shorn  of  their  desire  for  it.  More 
than  one  painter  has  succumbed  to  its  golden  glamour; 
witness  the  canvases  of  Childe  Hassam  and  Colin  Camp 
bell  Cooper. 

How  much  fiction  there  exists  in  which  the  young 
protagonist  views  the  frowning  battlements  of  the  city 
from  the  decks  of  an  incoming  ferry-boat.  He  may  not 
shake  his  fist  at  the  Woolworth  tower  as  did  Rastignac, 
Balzac's  sorry  hero,  when  watching  Paris  from  the  heights 
and  melodramatically  muttering:  "The  fight's  between 
us  two  now!"  But  some  spirit  of  antagonism  blended 
with  ambition  must  fill  the  bosom  of  adventuring  youth 
as  he  beholds  what  may  be  the  home  of  realised  hopes, 
that  is,  unless  he  comes  by  way  of  the  Hudson  Tubes, 
and  then  the  old  ferry-boat  is  no  longer  a  stage  set  for  his 
noble  gesture.  In  Arthur  Bartlett  Maurice's  The  New 
York  of  the  Novelists,  may  be  found  invaluable  material 
for  the  curious  student.  The  author  slowly  works  his 
way  up-town,  not  overlooking  "The  Big  Canyons  of  the 
Money-Grubbers."  That  journalistic  Bohemia,  Park 
Row,  of  which  wrote  Jesse  Lynch  Williams,  Richard 
Harding  Davis,  Graham  Phillips,  and  Stephen  Whitman 
— like  Davis,  a  Philadelphian — is  not  slighted.  And 
when  we  reach  the  name  of  Edward  W.  Townsend, 
we  exclaim:  "Wot  t'ell !  Chimmie  Fadden."  Chimmie 
still  lives  in  the  memories  of  his  readers,  though  the  dis 
reputable  Five  Points  has  vanished.  Mr.  Townsend, 
an  old  Sun  man,  added  to  the  civic  picture-gallery  a 
strongly  individualised  and  amusing  type.  Potash  and 
Perlmutter  are  definitely  localised,  and  "  Wasserbauer's 


NEW  YORK   IN   FICTION  171 

Cafe"  is  still  in  existence.  Police  headquarters,  which 
ever  intrigues  the  fancy  of  newspaper  writers,  and  Pon 
tons,  wherein  knotty  legal  problems  are  discussed  across 
tables,  are  not  missed.  The  mysterious  East  Side  always 
has  been  a  drab  cloud  by  day,  but  a  pillar  of  fire  by 
night.  Julian  Ralph,  Davis,  Rupert  Hughes — in  his 
exciting  Empty  Pockets — and  a  host  of  other  novelists 
have  explored  this  region,  and  like  pearl-divers,  the 
deeper  they  dove  the  more  precious  the  treasure  they 
brought  to  the  surface.  In  the  Ghetto,  "Sidney  Luska," 
the  pen-name  of  Henry  Harland,  was  the  pioneer.  As  It 
Was  Written,  The  Yoke  of  the  Torah,  and  Mrs.  Peixada 
are  yet  to  be  bettered.  Sidney  Rosenfeld,  Abraham 
Cahan,  James  Oppenheim,  Bruno  Lessing,  Rupert 
Hughes  are  names  that  occur  to  one  as  the  pearl-fishers 
in  those  dusky  waters.  Such  artists  as  George  Luks, 
Jerome  Myers,  Glackens,  John  Sloan,  Eugene  Higgins 
have  portrayed  the  East  Side  with  sympathetic  pencils. 
The  East  Side  of  O.  Henry  is  set  before  us:  The  Cafe 
Maginnis,  The  Blue  Light  Drug  Store,  Dutch  Mike's 
Saloon,  and  No.  12  Avenue  C.  He  whimsically  calls 
New  York  "Little  Old  Bagdad  on  the  Subway/' 

Among  the  forerunners  of  the  present  generation  were 
Henry  James,  William  Dean  Howells,  Marion  Crawford, 
Brander  Matthews,  H.  C.  Bunner,  Thomas  A.  Janvier, 
Edgar  Fawcett,  Frank  Stockton,  and  Edgar  Saltus. 
PfafFs,  where  Mr.  Howells  met  Walt  Whitman  and  Fitz- 
James  O'Brien,  was  then  the  Bohemia;  Washington 
Square  the  Belgravia.  What  a  playground  for  dazzling 
antithesis !  Henry  James  visited  the  Square  in  his 
earlier  novels  and  Saltus  and  Edith  Wharton.  That 
brilliant  and  compelling  fiction,  The  Truth  About  Tris- 
trem  Varick  is  laid  in  Gramercy  Park,  in  the  old  house 


1 72  STEEPLEJACK 

of  Stanford  White.  During  the  eighties  Edgar  Saltus 
played  the  role  of  social  secretary  to  the  fiction  of  the 
Four  Hundred;  and  not  always  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
people  he  painted.  He  told  the  truth.  Mrs.  Wharton 
told  the  truth.  Never  tell  the  truth  in  fiction  if  you  wish 
to  repose  sweetly  upon  the  breast  of  your  readers.  It 
may  be  confessed  without  contradiction  that  the  majority 
of  our  fiction  writers  are  sadly  given  to  sickly  senti 
mentalising.  0.  Henry  was  a  prime  sinner.  Our  drama 
and  novels  must  be  lined  with  pink  cotton  because  of  the 
sensitive  epidermis  of  the  man  and  woman  in  the  subway, 
who,  nevertheless,  digest  without  shock  the  "tough" 
facts  of  life  in  the  newspapers.  That  apocalyptic  genius, 
Benjamin  De  Casseres,  once  divided  our  native  fic 
tion-mongers  into  four  groups:  Punk,  Junk,  Bunk,  and 
Bull.  Punk  includes  the  ladies  with  triple-barrelled  names 
— there  are  plenty  with  two;  Junk,  all  the  writings  on 
so-called  social-science,  pollyannas,  new-thoughters,  and 
pseudo-psychologists;  Bunk  is  the  fashionable  novel; 
and  Bull  applies  to  the  Jack  London  School;  ramping, 
roaring,  robust  rough-riders  and  heroes  from  the  wild 
and  woolly  West;  bastards  of  the  Bret  Harte  fiction.  It 
is  a  just  classification.  We  needs  must  have  our  "art" 
dosed  with  saccharine.  War  fiction  for  a  period  will 
destroy  this  syrup,  but  it  will  be  in  evidence  again. 
Several  of  Theodore  Dreiser's  novels  deal  with  New  York, 
The  Genius  in  particular;  a  book  moral  to  the  sermon 
ising  point,  it  is  full  of  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  city. 
Mr.  Chambers  fashioned  the  scene  of  A  King  in  Yellow 
from  the  neighbourhood  of  Washington  Square.  He 
sails  through  Society  in  most  of  his  work.  Sister  Carrie 
fled  to  New  York.  Predestined,  by  Stephen  Whitman, 
one  of  the  few  well-written  stories  on  this  day  of  vulgar 


NEW  YORK   IN   FICTION  173 

diction  and  typewritten  rubbish,  depicts  with  a  vivid 
brush  certain  sections  not  far  from  Second  Avenue,  and 
pugilist  Sharkey's  (Sailor  Tom)  old  place  on  Fourteenth 
Street. 

Irving  Place  and  Liichow's  have  often  figured  in  tales 
of  the  town.  Van  Bibber  and  his  pranks  showed  Richard 
Harding  Davis  at  his  most  entertaining.  The  heart  of 
O.  Henry  was  in  Irving  Place,  not  far  from  Gramercy 
Park,  the  Hotel  America,  Old  Munich,  and  Little  Rhein- 
schlossen.  His  readers  will  recall  these  places.  Scheffel 
Hall  is  still  open.  It  has  been  a  resort  for  Bohemians 
nearly  fifty  years.  But  O.  Henry  did  not  see  it  in  its 
glory.  Thanks  to  his  friend,  Gilman  Hall,  I  met  Sydney 
Porter  at  the  Hotel  Seville.  The  pace  was  beginning  to 
tell  on  him.  He  was  a  hard  worker  and  a  furious  candle- 
burner.  Humorous  and  emotional,  he  was  like  a  hero  in 
one  of  his  own  stories.  He  never  had  the  leisure  to  polish 
his  anecdotes.  New  York  was  his  magnetic  rock.  He 
became  a  cockney  of  the  cockneys.  But  when  he  is  called 
the  American  De  Maupassant  and  Davis  our  Balzac,  then 
criticism  should  go  hide  its  head.  After  Madison  Square 
another  marking  spot  is  Gramercy  Park:  In  What  Will 
People  Say?  which  is  Rupert  Hughes  at  his  best,  we 
catch  glimpses  of  "tea,  tango,  and  toperland."  About 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  the  mists  of  memory  have 
not  yet  mounted;  it  is  not  old  enough  to  have  its  legend, 
as  has  the  Academy  of  Music.  But  William  J.  Hender 
son  has  not  passed  it  by  in  his  The  Soul  of  a  Tenor. 
Mrs.  Wharton's  The  House  of  Mirth  plays  near  it. 
F.  Hopkinson  Smith  knew  the  city  and  its  outlying  dis 
tricts.  How  we  followed  his  trail  to  "Laguerre's,"  its 
cheap  wine  and  innocent  diversions.  A  city  passed  out 


i74  STEEPLEJACK 

of  existence  while  "Hop"  Smith  wrote  and  painted. 
Fickle,  shifting,  protean  New  York !  You  cross  the 
bridge  to  Brooklyn  in  the  morning  and  on  your  return  at 
night  you  may  find  a  big  hole  blasted  through  the  house 
you  had  left  intact.  Anything  is  apt  to  happen  in  Man 
hattan  except  monotony.  The  department  stores  have 
not  been  overlooked  by  the  younger  tribe  of  purveyors — 
the  "new"  short-story,  as  far  as  structure  is  concerned, 
is  amorphous,  invertebrate.  Montagu  Glass,  Edna  Fer- 
ber,  Samuel  Merwin  are  diverting.  There  are  mushroom 
Bohemias  springing  up  overnight,  canned  mushrooms; 
compared  with  them  the  Sixth  Avenues,  Bohemias,  Mou- 
quins  and  Jacks  seem  eternal.  Like  the  queer  little 
resorts  off  South  Washington  Square  and  its  vicinage, 
these  serve  as  a  file  upon  which  budding  genius  sharpens 
its  teeth.  The  wine,  too,  sets  your  teeth  on  edge. 

Old  Delmonico's  has  gone  forever,  and  a  few  months 
ago  Sherry's  followed  suit.  No  longer  may  we  lounge 
with  Van  Bibber  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  windows  and  ogle 
passing  petticoats.  With  a  sigh  we  admit  that  dear  old 
intimate  New  York,  the  city  that  once  contained  Ameri 
cans,  has  been  submerged  by  an  anonymous  mob  from 
across  seas.  The  prophecy  has  come  to  pass:  The  East 
has  conquered  the  West  Side.  Manners,  like  good  cook 
ery,  have  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh.  Soon  the  last  Ameri 
can  will  disappear.  I  wager  that  his  name  then  will  be 
either  Smithowski,  Brownstein,  or  Robinsonio.  Yet  the 
cry  will  always  be  New  York  Redivivus !  In  a  moment 
of  discouragement  I  said  that  American  fiction  was  largely 
written  by  imbeciles  for  the  delectation  of  idiots.  This 
was  not  only  uncritical,  it  was  unfair.  I  should  have 
reversed  the  order  and  included  the  playwright  and  pub 
lic. 


NEW  YORK   IN   FICTION  175 

Just  now  the  right  of  free  speech  is  not  so  important  as 
free  speechlessness.  Old  Joe  Howard  used  to  tell  the 
newspaper  boys  of  my  time  that  the  man  wasn't  yet  born 
who  could  write  a  column  of  wit  and  wisdom  every  day 
of  the  year.  If  he  had  lived  to  read  Don  Marquis  in 
the  New  York  Evening  Sun  (a  charming  poet)  and  Frank 
lin  P.  Adams  (F.  P.  A.)  in  The  Tribune  he  might  have 
revised  his  opinion;  furthermore,  he  would  have  been 
forced  to  add  to  his  category  the  art  of  poetry.  Despair 
ingly,  I  wonder  how  those  two  clever  chaps  manage  to 
keep  the  machine  running.  Day  after  day  they  throw 
off  verse  and  prose  suffused  with  humour,  fancy,  and  com 
mon  sense — the  last  is  not  the  least  negligible.  And  such 
verbal  virtuosity !  Thinking  over  the  problem — the  in 
exhaustible  conjuror's  bottle  comes  as  an  analogy,  but 
filled  with  ideas,  not  water — I  blew  up  the  other  morning 
immediately  after  breakfast,  making  a  noise  like  a 
"blurb,"  and  Gelett  Burgess  has  defined  a  " blurb"  as  a 
noise  like  a  publisher.  Now,  my  meal  had  been  light, 
tea  and  cereal.  The  ancient  maxim  runs  thus:  Grape 
fruit  for  brilliancy,  for  profundity  sip  chocolate.  I  don't 
believe  it.  Yet  it  wasn't  the  tea,  it  must  have  been  the 
"pent-up  aching  rivers,"  as  Walt  Whitman  says,  of  accu 
mulated  reading  and  a  mild  mania  of  imitation.  I  sat 
down  at  my  writing-table,  as  wide  as  a  well.  Jamming 
on  full  speed  I  manufactured  phrases.  Aphorism  or  epi 
gram?  Or  just  plain  hot-air,  a  windy  reflex  from  other 
men?  Note  the  lack  of  continuity,  a  dangerous  symp 
tom  of  senility. 

Some  people  lose  their  ideals  when  their  teeth  begin 
to  go.  (What  retrogression  is  here,  my  friends?)  Ac 
cording  to  Havelock  Ellis  the  basis  of  love  is  tumescence 
and  detumescence.  Tolerance  is  often  a  virtue  of  seep- 


176  STEEPLEJACK 

tics — but  is  it  a  virtue?  Good  art  is  never  obscene;  the 
only  obscene  art  is  bad  art.  After  the  war  is  over,  it 
would  seem  that  the  Almanach  de  Gotha  will  have  to  be 
changed  to  Almanach  de  Ghetto — especially  in  the  land 
of  the  Muscovite.  Envy  is  only  a  form  of  inverted  ad 
miration.  Joseph  Conrad  speaks  of  pity  as  a  special 
form  of  contempt.  Stupidity  is  the  great  humourist,  says 
George  Moore.  We  live  too  much  on  the  surface  of  our 
being.  A  philosopher  has  said  that  we  live  forward  and 
think  backward.  Sorrow  is  the  antiseptic  of  sick  souls. 
Woman,  declared  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  (shrewd 
psychologists),  is  the  most  potent  engine  of  dolour  that 
God  has  given  Man.  The  French  Revolution  only  de 
stroyed  ruins;  the  social  edifice  had  been  tottering  for  a 
century.  Who  was  it  that  so  proudly  boasted:  My 
knowledge  of  thy  knowledge  is  the  knowledge  thou  cov- 
etest?  Peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good-will — and  fixtures 
(above  all,  the  latter).  Intimate  friends  are,  as  a  rule, 
disasters.  Mythomania  is  a  malady  that  spares  few. 
Its  real  name  is  religion.  Walt  Whitman  may  have  been 
a  yellow  dog,  but  he  had  a  golden  bark.  Truth  is  always 
original.  But  what  is  Truth?  Happiness  is  an  eternal 
hoax.  Only  children  believe  in  happiness;  as  well  say 
that  the  wise  are  children.  A  delightful  masculine  con 
vention  is  the  virtue  of  woman.  (George  Meredith  said 
this  better.)  Be  virtuous  and  you  will  be  bilious.  (Ven 
erable  Hindu  proverb.)  She  was  old  enough  to  gossip 
frankly  about  her  new  upper-set,  but  had  not  reached 
the  age  when  she  would  admit  that  she  was  out  of  the 
marriage  market.  The  average  author  is  not  unlike  the 
average  father:  his  first,  his  second  book,  he  is  interested 
in  as  is  the  father  of  a  newly-born  baby;  but  after  that 
he  regards  his  growing  family  with  indifference,  often 


NEW  YORK   IN   FICTION  177 

with  dismay.  There  is  always  a  silent  corner  in  the  most 
sincere  confession  of  a  woman.  If  you  closely  study  a 
man  you  will  discover  that  his  marriage  resembles  him 
(what  many-sided  men  must  be  polygamists).  In  the 
chateau  of  chimeras  nothing  is  insignificant.  Suspicion 
of  the  beloved  one  is  like  apoplexy;  you  may  be  cured 
after  the  first  attack,  but  the  second  is  always  fatal. 
(This  sounds  like  Paul  Bourget.)  After  forty  a  man 
survives  himself;  which  is  a  companion  to  the  impolite 
epigram  of  Labouchere  that  all  women  over  forty  should 
be  slain — except  the  suffragettes.  What  is  all  modern 
literature  but  a  reek  of  regret  that  we  are  all  but  bubbles 
on  a  stream?  (George  Moore.)  I  pause  for  breath. 

Most  politicians  are  patriotic  vegetables.  Man  is 
more  significant  than  his  creed.  The  heart  has  only  one 
season.  Books  never  kill.  In  music  the  cadenza  is  a 
parenthesis,  except  with  Franz  Liszt,  who  composed 
cadenzas  with  orchestral  accompaniment  and  called  them 
concertos.  Charles  Dickens  said:  "We  are  all  going  to 
the  play,  or  coming  home  from  it."  "Since  they  can 
only  judge,  who  can  confer?"  wrote  Ben  Jonson.  The 
meaning  of  life  is  just  the  living  of  it.  German  fresco- 
painting  is  the  white  of  an  egg  dipped  in  frigid  ennui. 
One  of  the  finest  things  in  Hazlitt  is  his  lusty  yeoman 
in  The  Fight,  who  impatiently  cries:  "Confound  it,  man, 
don't  be  insipid."  A  philosophy  in  a  sentence.  Insipid 
ity  is  the  cancer  of  modern  art.  Men  change,  mankind 
never.  The  woman  who  goes  about  with  a  chastity  chip 
on  her  shoulders — i.  e.,  aggressively  boasting  of  her  virtue 
— should  be  suspiciously  viewed;  she  is  painted  fire.  A 
Polish  proverb  tells  us  that  you  must  kiss  the  hand  that 
you  wish  not  to  sever.  It's  the  severed  head  that  makes 
the  seraphim,  wrote  poet  Francis  Thompson.  Do  you 


i78  STEEPLEJACK 

remember  the  old  story,  so  old  that  it  is  new,  about  Mrs. 
Bloomfield  H.  Moore  and  her  titled  visitor?  She  was 
entertaining  him,  probably  talking  about  the  Keely 
motor,  when  another  visitor  was  announced.  The  Baron 
politely  arose.  "Don't  disturb  yourself,  my  dear  Baron," 
sweetly  remarked  the  hostess,  "it's  only  my  architect." 
This  architect  happened  to  be  a  member  of  the  Furness 
family.  Apochryphal  or  not,  this  anecdote  tickled  Phil 
adelphia's  rib  in  the  early  eighties  or  late  seventies.  The 
essence  of  music  is  silence.  Hamlet  said  the  rest  is 
silence,  thereby  proving  that  he  was  a  musician.  The 
rest  is  always  silent.  Alice  Meynell,  essayist  unique, 
wrote  that  it  is  not  the  eye  but  the  eyelid  that  is  impor 
tant,  beautiful,  eloquent,  full  of  secrets.  The  eye  has 
nothing  but  its  colour,  and  all  colours  are  fine  within  fine 
eyelids  .  .  .  expression  is  outward,  and  the  eye  has  it 
not.  There  are  no  windows  of  the  soul;  there  are  only 
curtains  .  .  .  the  eyelids  confess,  and  refuse,  and  refuse 
to  reject.  They  have  expressed  all  things  since  man  was 
man.  She  also  said  that  Hamlet,  being  a  little  mad, 
feigned  madness.  Truly  a  subtle  distinction.  She  also 
said  that  Man  is  Greek  without  and  Japanese  within. 
Our  face  and  figure;  our  insides.  Symmetrical  and 
asymmetrical.  And  in  her  Hearts  of  Controversy,  she 
says,  "the  note — commonly  called  Celtic,  albeit  it  is 
the  most  English  thing  in  the  world."  .  .  .  This  is 
enough  to  startle  the  staid  ghost  of  Mat  Arnold.  The 
Celtic  note  English!  Alice,  where  art  thou?  Matthew 
Arnold  averred  that  in  America  the  funny  man  was  a 
national  calamity.  British  humourists  have  ever  since 
made  careful  note  of  this  warning. 


XXI 

A  VOCAL  ABELARD 

I  had  always  liked  the  old  man.  I  met  him  first  at  a 
dingy  little  table  d'hote  just  off  Fourteenth  Street,  a 
quiet,  retired  place  where  the  spaghetti  smoked,  the  wine 
was  cheap,  and  not  too  nasty,  and  the  tariff  very  low. 
Understand  me,  I  didn't  spend  much  money  on  food, 
preferring  to  invest  it  in  books,  books  easy  to  procure 
— if  one  only  has  the  price.  I  care  little  for  black-letter 
editions;  I  would  even  allow  an  Aldus  or  an  Elzevir  to 
pass  me  if  a  copy  of  Flaubert's  Temptation  were  nigh, 
or  the  music  of  Mallarme's  poetry  available.  I  actually 
did  give  my  watch  to  one  of  those  gentlemen  who  lend 
money  at  high  per  cent.,  on  account  of  a  first  edition. 
Ah !  but  what  a  copy.  With  illustrations  by  Manet. 
But  I'm  forgetting  about  Agnani.  Ettore  Agnani,  to 
give  him  his  full  name,  was  one  of  those  operatic  waifs 
cast  up  by  the  ocean  of  music  and  stranded  in  the  city 
with  only  the  shreds  and  shards  of  a  bass  voice.  He 
was  a  musty-skinned,  high-nosed  Italian,  with  some  evi 
dences  of  gentility  still  hovering  about  his  person,  a  lover 
of  Italian  sauces  and  an  inveterate  raconteur. 

In  those  days  the  table  d'hote  was  a  hobby  of  mine. 
I  have  discovered  many  good  places  and  remained  with 
them  till  their  inevitable  decadence,  and  would  then 
begin  my  search  anew.  I  have  eaten  at  an  Irish  table 
d'hote  where  "Saucissons  Patrique"  were  served,  and  at 
Rumanian  restaurants  where  pepper  reigned  and  beef 
was  a  side  issue.  Finally,  I  discovered  Varsi's  and  was 

179 


i8o  STEEPLEJACK 


satisfied.  Soup  that  savoured  of  cockroaches  was  hardly 
to  be  commended,  but  the  spaghetti !  For  forty  cents 
I  dined  royally,  drank  Chianti  from  Hoboken  Heights, 
and  waxed  fat  and  lusty.  Chance  one  evening  brought 
Agnani  to  my  table  and  the  aristocratic  deliberation 
with  which  he  placed  his  eye-glasses  on  the  bridge  of 
his  skinny  nose  as  he  scanned  the  menu  pleased  me. 
His  hands  were  lean,  brown,  withered,  and  he  sported 
one  ring,  a  blood-stone,  as  antique  as  its  owner.  Agnani 
was  a  character.  We  became  friends,  for,  while  I  am 
not  much  of  a  lover  of  music,  I  like  its  literary  side.  I 
am  enamoured  of  gossip,  memoirs,  recollections  which 
concern  distinguished  people  and  otherwise — and  Ag 
nani  as  he  ate  his  fritto  would  ramble  through  the  mists 
of  his  past  and  occasionally  dig  up  something  of  inter 
est.  How  the  old  rascal  laughed  as  he  slashed  a  woman's 
reputation,  and  with  what  zest  he  recounted  his  early 
operatic  triumphs.  He  had  a  little  dog  to  which  he  was 
devoted.  I  simply  loathed  it.  It  was  one  of  those 
shrewish  rat-terriers  not  big  enough  to  make  a  meal  for 
an  honest  Newfoundland,  and  it  always  bared  its  tiny 
gums  at  me  in  the  most  malignant  manner.  Agnani  was 
crazy  over  the  beast,  and  I'll  never  forget  the  night  when 
in  a  stifled  voice  he  said:  "Nina  is  dead."  Nina  was  the 
name  of  the  little  animal,  and  I  hadn't  the  heartlessness 
to  let  him  know  how  glad  I  felt  at  the  news. 

Agnani  seemed  the  most  frank  of  men  till  his  private 
life  was  touched  upon,  and  then  his  soul  flew  behind 
bars  and  bolts,  and  he  would  become  unapproachable. 
I  am  not  too  curious  but  I  have  an  aching  nerve  called 
by  the  psychiatrists  "a  craving  for  psychical  insight." 
To  believe  that  this  brain-barren  Lombard  had  "soul- 
states"  would  be  rather  ridiculous,  for  his  greatest  con- 


A  VOCAL  ABELARD  181 

cern  in  life  had  seemed  the  tomato  sauce  on  his  spaghetti 
and  Nina.  After  the  little  dog  died  he  would  work  him 
self  up  into  a  green  rage  with  Pietro,  the  one-eyed  garcon, 
when  the  sauce  was  scorched.  Otherwise,  an  acid  smile 
lurked  under  his  dyed  and  gummed  mustachios,  and 
his  laugh  was  crackling.  He  wore  a  red  necktie  and 
I  have  heard  that  he  had  achieved  his  greatest  artistic 
success  as  a  buffo-basso.  He  baffled  me,  did  this  broken- 
down  singer,  to  whom  I  frequently  extended  dinner  in 
vitations  with  the  hope  of  getting  a  story — a  rich,  live 
story  which  would  repay  me  for  my  trouble.  (This 
may  sound  cruel,  but  I  am  a  newspaper  man,  and  ink, 
not  blood,  circulates  in  my  veins.) 

I  took  Agnani  to  a  Chinese  table  d'hote  and  fed  him 
on  bird's-nest  soup  and  chop-suey.  I  took  him  to  old 
Martin's  where  they  breakfast  like  epicures.  I  dined 
him  at  the  Maison  Felix,  but  even  the  artistic  dinner  in 
that  rare  spot  failed  to  warm  the  cockles  on  his  soul.  At 
last  one  warm  June  night,  I  met  him  tottering  up  Third 
Avenue,  looking  ill  and  dogless;  his  scarlet  tie  had  less 
of  its  flamboyancy  and  the  man  was  meek  and  dusty. 
The  hour  must  have  been  ten  and  his  eyes  plainly  im 
plored:  "Give  me  to  drink."  I  brought  the  old  chap  to 
Scheffel  Hall  and  bade  him  drink  beer,  and  to  my  sur 
prise  he  drank  it  greedily.  Italians  are  not  fanatical 
beer  drinkers.  They  are  more  given  to  cordials,  which 
they  sip  after  a  river  of  oily  eloquence.  Not  so  Agnani. 
He  developed  a  colossal  thirst,  and  about  the  twelfth 
or  thirteenth  glass  light  broke  at  last.  He  was  drunk, 
serenely  so,  after  the  manner  of  the  family  Agnani. 
Then  it  all  came  out.  He  was  the  second  son  of  a  Lom 
bard  family  whose  name  made  me  blink  when  he  told  it. 
You  will  never  know  as  I'll  go  to  the  crematory  with  his 


1 82  STEEPLEJACK 

secret.  Besides,  what  does  a  name  amount  to  except 
it  be  at  the  bottom  of  a  certified  cheque?  He  must  have 
been  a  wild  spendthrift  and  had  "bonnes  fortunes"; 
but  of  the  inchoate  mass  of  reminiscences  he  hurled  at 
me  I  recall  only  one  story — a  story  so  improbable  that  it 
set  me  to  dreaming  of  the  loves  of  Abelard  and  Heloise, 
and  for  the  moment  transformed  the  faded  features  of 
Agnani  into  the  stern  lineaments  of  the  implacable  Canon 
Fulbert.  Here  is  the  anecdote: 

The  Milan  Opera  Company  which  had  left  that  capital 
to  go  on  tour  in  the  provinces,  comprised  as  its  personnel 
Rosati,  prima  donna,  soprano;  Lahn,  a  Swiss,  contralto; 
Dimali,  tenor;  and  Agnani,  basso.  There  were  others, 
of  course,  but  these  were  the  principals,  and  with  the 
impresario,  Negri,  and  the  Conductor  Pinuti,  dined  at 
the  first  table  and  travelled  second-class.  The  rest  of 
the  company  went  "au  troisieme."  The  real  artist  in 
the  troupe,  Dimali,  was  a  tenor  of  the  robust  type,  with 
a  voice  like  steel,  and  a  determined  lover  of  women. 
The  soprano  and  contralto  were  mediocre,  but  hand 
some  and  close  friends. 

"I  liked  them  both,"  said  Agnani  in  a  quavering  voice, 
"because  they  were  good-looking  women,  and  I  always 
had  a  weakness  for  female  beauty."  This  was  so  in 
geniously  accented,  and  he  looked  such  a  crumbling  ruin 
even  as  he  boasted  that  I  ordered  two  more  beers.  He 
drank  both — by  mistake,  I  fancied.  Then  he  continued: 

"I  was  never  on  very  good  terms  with  Dimali.  He 
was  so  conceited;  he  was  a  fine -looking  man;  no  one 
could  gainsay  that,  but  he  made  eyes  at  every  petticoat, 
and  no  chambermaid  was  ugly  enough  to  keep  him  at 
bay — that  is,  if  there  were  no  prettier  women  around. 
And  how  that  fellow  could  drink!  He  fairly  swilled, 


A  VOCAL  ABELARD  183 

always  took  a  treat  and  never  stood  one.  Ah !  he  was  a 
mean  rascal,  but  before  the  footlights  he  was  superb." 
Agnani  rolled  his  eyes  and  lighted  another  cigarette. 
Its  thin,  cool  smoke  curled  above  his  shining  pate  and 
straightway  I  forgot  the  clangour  of  Third  Avenue,  and 
my  fancy  lit  up  the  stage  of  some  shabby  opera-house 
in  a  second  or  third  rate  Italian  city,  as  on  its  boards 
moved  to  tones  the  passionate  puppets  of  transpontine 
opera. 

"Dimali  never  knew  when  to  stop,"  pursued  the  basso, 
his  ancient  jealousy  of  the  man  favoured  by  women 
breaking  forth  when  his  feet  were  treading,  one  might 
say,  the  very  edge  of  his  grave.  "He  was  aware  of  his 
artistic  superiority  and  always  impressed  you  with  it. 
He  disdained  the  two  women  principals,  and  while  en 
route  usually  devoted  himself  to  some  pretty  chorus 
girls,  riding  third-class,  and  only  turning  up  at  meal 
times.  We  sang  with  varying  success  in  many  of  the 
smaller  cities  and  in  a  few  of  the  larger  ones,  and  our  life 
was  one  of  the  customary  cheap  triumphs,  cheaper  lodg 
ings,  and  general  depression.  Rosati  and  Lahn  kept 
together;  the  manager,  conductor  and  I  played  our  dom- 
inos  after  the  performance.  The  conductor,  Signor 
Pinuti,  was  the  most  cold-blooded  wretch  I  ever  met. 
He  had  formerly  been  a  surgeon  in  Ravenna,  but  want 
of  practice  drove  him  into  the  musical  profession — for 
which  he  had  a  marked  talent.  He  would,  in  his  drawling 
tone,  recite  damnable  stories  of  surgical  operations  till 
I  shivered — my  nerves  were  a  woman's,  and  I  feared  the 
sight  of  blood.  I  hadn't  been  much  with  Pinuti  before 
I  discovered  that,  despite  his  harsh,  frigid  nature,  he 
was  passionately  in  love  with  Rosati,  the  big  blonde 


1 84  STEEPLEJACK 

soprano,  who,  apparently,  cared  for  no  one.  It  was  in 
Ravenna,  Pinuti's  native  city,  that  I  first  noticed  Di- 
mali's  queer  behaviour  with  the  contralto,  Lahn.  Out  of 
bravado  he  began  to  make  love  to  her,  desperately, 
without  shame,  and  when  a  man  like  this  tenor  becomes 
earnest  he  may  prove  dangerous.  He  fairly  haunted 
Lahn,  and  the  pretty,  silly  brunette  showed  she  was 
conscious  of  the  handsome  singer's  wooing.  Rosati  sul 
lenly  watched  the  game,  but  was  she  indifferent?  Our 
conductor  had  apparently  ingratiated  himself  into  her 
graces,  and  they  became  inseparable.  Thus  we  split 
into  three  camps,  for  I  associated  with  the  manager, 
Negri.  We  watched  the  conductor  and  soprano,  and 
they  in  their  turn  spied  upon  the  contralto  and  tenor. 
Pinuti  by  this  time  was  crazy  in  love,  and  the  once  cold 
Rosati  seemed  to  favour  him.  Ah !  my  boy,  how  little 
do  we  know  of  women  and  their  tricky  ways.  One 
morning  after  rehearsal,  I  overheard  Pinuti  speaking 
with  Dimali,  rather  arguing.  I  was  in  my  dressing-room, 
and  every  word  came  to  me  clear  cut.  Of  course,  I 
listened. 

Let  her  alone,  I  beg,  I  command  you ! '  cried  the 
conductor. 

"Ah!  Ah!  Am  I  poaching  on  your  property?' 
asked  Dimali  in  his  most  irritating  style.  There  was  a 
significant  silence,  then  Pinuti  said  in  a  hollow,  strained 
voice : 

'You  insult  Lahn.     As  for  me  I  am  betrothed  to 
Signorina  Rosati.' 

"Perhaps  the  shoe  pinches  there,'  responded  Dimali, 
laughing  villainously.  Then  I  heard  no  more.  Later  I 
could  see  that  the  Rosati  had  become  Dimali's  enemy. 


A  VOCAL  ABELARD  185 

Evidently  Pinutf  had  told  her  of  the  tenor's  nasty  speech, 
for  she  never  noticed  Dimali  except  when  singing  with 
him.  Lahn  seemed  conscious  of  a  change  in  the  moral 
temperature  and  avoided  her  former  chum;  beyond  doubt 
she  was  succumbing  to  the  fervour  of  the  tenor.  Things 
couldn't  go  on  this  way  much  longer.  I  told  Negri  so. 
He  only  laughed  and  said  I  had  too  much  imagination, 
at  the  same  time  bidding  me  not  to  mix  up  in  the 
affair.  Each  day  Pinuti  grew  gloomier,  and  when  not 
conducting  was  scheming.  He  was  constantly  with 
Rosati,  and  they  watched  the  other  pair  of  lovers  like 
detectives.  These  were  aware  of  the  espionage,  yet 
never  acted  as  if  they  wished  to  be  alone.  Like  true 
Italians  they  made  love  in  public  and  parted  every  night 
after  a  public  embrace  that  made  Rosati  wince  and 
Pinuti  turn  pale.  What  extraordinary  reasons  had 
these  people  for  objecting  to  the  love  of  the  tenor  and 
contralto?  Was  Pinuti  also  in  love  with  the  brunette? 
Or,  perhaps  the  soprano  was  really  in  love  with  the  tenor 
and  jealous  of  the  coquettish  Lahn.  I  couldn't  make  it 
out.  Suddenly  to  my  amazement,  happiness  reigned  in 
our  little  circle.  The  conductor  threw  off  his  dark  mood 
and  sparkled  with  jests  and  cheerfulness.  Rosati,  too, 
forgot  the  two  lovers,  and  peace  once  more  unfolded 
her  wings  above  us. 

"'What  did  I  tell  you,  old  Grandmother  Goose?' 
jocosely  remarked  the  manager  to  me;  but  I  held  my 
tongue.  I  am  a  Lombard  and  the  Lombardians  are 
naturally  suspicious.  Soon  Pinuti  and  Dimali  became 
thick  as  sheep  at  pasture  and  continually  drinking  and 
pledging  each  other  in  strong  wine.  Dimali  was  a  rois 
terer  who  always  drank  too  much  while  Pinuti,  the  man 


1 86  STEEPLEJACK 

from  Ravenna,  was  too  cool-headed  to  be  affected  by 
his  potations.  The  two  women  were  once  more  on  good 
terms,  and  I  was  simply  a  bewildered  looker-on  in — how 
do  you  say  it? — Si !  in  Vienna.  I  knew  it  couldn't  last, 
but  I  was  not,  I  swear  to  you,  prepared  for  what  followed. 
One  night,  after  the  lovers  had  literally  torn  them 
selves  apart,  Dimali  went  with  Pinuti  to  the  wine-house. 
I  was  soon  off  to  bed,  for  we  had  been  singing  'Rigoletto,' 
and  I  was  tired.  It  must  have  been  long  after  midnight 
when  the  sound  of  footsteps  awoke  me,  followed  by  a 
noise  as  if  some  one  were  lurching  from  wall  to  wall. 
A  moment  later,  I  heard  Dimali's  voice,  thick  with  wine, 
lustily  trolling.  A  muttered  exclamation  from  Pinuti 
and  the  song  ceased.  Doubtless  a  hand  had  been 
clapped  over  the  tenor's  mouth  to  prevent  him  from 
arousing  the  sleeping  household.  I  arose  and  opening 
my  door  ever  so  little  saw  by  the  dim  lamplight  the  two 
men  careening  along.  Only  Pinuti  did  not  seem  to  be 
very  drunk,  for  he  easily  supported  his  companion.  He 
led  him,  much  to  my  surprise,  to  his  own  room,  and  after 
a  few  minutes  came  out  into  the  corridor  and,  passing  me 
unsuspectingly,  went  directly  to  Rosati's  door  and 
knocked  three  times.  I  counted  those  knocks,  they 
were  like  the  knocks  at  the  gate  in  your  Shakespeare's 
'Macbeth.'  In  a  moment  he  was  admitted,  and  I 
smiled  at  myself  for  my  silly  suspicions,  sillier  fears. 

"I  was  turning  to  my  bed  when  my  attention  was 
once  more  caught  by  the  sound  of  a  door  softly  closed. 
I  instantly  tiptoed  to  my  old  post  and  saw  with  a  sur 
prise  that  merged  into  horror  the  conductor  and  the 
soprano  moving  towards  Pinuti's  room  wherein  lay  the 
drunken  Dimali.  As  he  passed  under  the  lamp  Pinuti 


A  VOCAL  ABELARD  187 

paused,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  a 
black  oblong  box. 

"This  sinister  drama  so  upset  my  nerves  that  I  fell 
on  my  bed  incapable  of  motion,  above  all  incapable  of 
raising  my  voice  in  alarm.  But  my  brain  was  excru 
ciatingly  alive.  I  suffered  ten  thousand  hells  as  I  laid 
there,  and  years  seemed  to  pass,  though  I  dare  say  it 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  ten  minutes  before  the 
guilty  couple  emerged  from  the  blood-stained  chamber 
of  crime.  Pinuti  silently  conducted  to  her  room  the 
wretched  soprano,  Rosati.  As  they  passed  me  in  the 
semi-darkness  they  looked  like  the  Scotch  family — yes, 
like  the  Macbeths."  The  old  man  trembled  at  the  ghosts 
his  memory  had  dug  up. 

"And  did  they  murder  the  tenor?"  I  interrupted  in 
agitated  accents.  Agnani  hiccoughed,  the  strong  beer 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  his  venerable  brain.  He  re 
sponded  in  mumbling  tones. 

"No,  they  didn't  kill  poor  Dimali.  Worse.  He  went 
away  in  a  few  weeks.  Pinuti  was  heart-broken  when  he 
at  last  realised  that  he  had  been  used  as  a  handy  tool 
by  the  soprano — she,  too,  disappeared  soon  after.  The 
manager  failed,  the  company  broke  up,  and  I" — I  be 
came  impatient  with  his  drolling  evasiveness. 

"But  what  became  of  Dimali?"  The  now  thor 
oughly  intoxicated  old  ruffian  regarded  me  with  his 
cynical,  disconcerting  gaze.  He  asked  with  a  leer: 

"Have  you  ever  heard  Popelli's  opera,  'Abelardo  e 
Eloisa?"' 

"Never." 

''You  have  missed  much.  It  is  a  beautiful  score. 
Dimali  made  the  hit  of  his  career  in  it."  I  was  puzzled. 


1 88  STEEPLEJACK 

"As  Abelardo?" 

"No,  in  the  role  of  Eloisa." 

I  commanded  two  more  bocks.  When  he  left  the  cafe 
he  was  giving  an  excellent  imitation  of  the  Leaning 
Tower  of  Pisa,  only  more  dignified. 


XXII 

"M'LLE  NEW  YORK" 

Vance  Thompson  is  a  Caveman.  Don't  be  deceived 
by  his  books  on  Woman,  Drink,  Eat  and  Grow  Thin,  or 
by  his  activities  in  Europe  with  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
— where  Cavemen  were  needful.  He  is  a  Caveman,  des 
pite  his  poetry  and  prose.  I  first  met  him  at  the  old 
Eden  Musee  on  Twenty-third  Street,  in  1893,  where  he 
put  on  a  pantomime  of  his  own  with  his  wife,  Mile. 
Severine,  and  Pilar  Morin  in  the  cast.  He  was  writing 
for  The  Commercial  Advertiser;  later  he  joined  the  staff 
of  The  Musical  Courier.  Then  he  went  to  France  as  cor 
respondent.  He  published  his  French  Portraits  while  on 
The  Musical  Courier.  But  it  is  of  his  Mile.  New  York 
that  I  would  speak.  Modelled  after  some  of  the  Paris 
weeklies,  audacious,  fearing  neither  God  nor  man,  nor 
the  printer,  yet  this  fortnightly  was  unlike  any  publica 
tion  I  have  ever  seen.  To-day  collectors  know  it; 
a  complete  set  is  hard  to  come  by  and  the  price  is 
high.  The  first  series  comprises  eleven  numbers,  the 
second  four.  Vance  Thompson,  Thomas  Fleming,  illus 
trator,  Thomas  Powers,  illustrator,  and  myself  comprised 
the  staff.  There  was  no  office  except  under  our 
hats,  and  the  publisher  mailed  the  copies.  Frankly,  I 
wonder  how  we  escaped  Anthony  Comstock.  Perhaps 
our  "precious"  prose  saved  us.  But  the  illustrations! 
Simply  gorgeous.  The  "mighty  line"  of  Fleming,  the 
tricky  humour  and  skill  of  Powers — still  a  force  among 

New  York  caricaturists — the  wicked  attacks  of  Editor 

189 


1 90  STEEPLEJACK 

Thompson  on  society  and  government  and  women,  all 
these  made  Mile.  New  York  unique.  The  make-up,  too, 
of  the  sheet  was  unusual.  Printed  in  colours,  with  wide 
margins,  there  were  tiny  pictures  across  the  letter-press, 
and  impertinent  marginal  comment.  In  a  word,  Mile. 
New  York  was  more  Parisian  than  Paris.  It  cost  us 
a  lot.  We  had  to  dive  down  "into  our  jeans"  to  pay  the 
printer  and  paper-man.  But  we  had  lots  of  fun. 

It  was  a  safety-valve  for  our  rank  egotism  and  radi 
calism.  Every  institution  was  attacked  save  the  church. 
Philip  Hale  wrote  a  masterpiece  in  miniature  about  Jack 
the  Ripper,  entitled  "The  Baffled  Enthusiast."  We 
had  a  Philip  Hale  cult  then.  No  wonder.  An  artist  in 
prose,  he  literally  educated  Boston  in  the  gentle  art  of 
paganism.  Why,  even  in  such  a  deadly  task  as  invent 
ing  analytical  notes  to  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 
programmes  he  brings  a  touch  that  lightens  the  inherent 
dryness  of  the  subject.  Papa  Krehbiel,  as  each  number 
of  Mile.  New  York  appeared  would  run  his  fingers  through 
his  blond  curls  and  desperately  exclaim :  "What  are  you 
boys  up  to?"  We  didn't  know  ourselves.  Possibly  to 
startle  people.  We  didn't  succeed  either  in  startling  or 
in  making  the  enterprise  a  paying  one.  Mile.  New  York 
faded  from  the  news-stands.  Marc  Blumenberg  gener 
ously  came  to  the  rescue.  At  a  loss  he  published  the 
last  section  of  four  issues.  We  gave  up,  and  after  the 
shouting  was  over,  rather  the  wailing  of  the  mourners, 
the  casualty  list  was  depressing.  Eventually  all  in 
debtedness  was  cancelled.  We  had  the  experience  and 
fifteen  copies  of  a  costly  literary  and  artistic  experi 
ment.  And  Mile.  New  York  was  both  literary  and  artis 
tic.  When  the  young  chaps  nowadays  talk  about  Free 
Verse,  I  mind  me  of  the  verse  we  printed  twenty-three 


"M'LLE  NEW  YORK"  191 

years  ago.  (We  began  in  1895.)  When  a  clever  literary 
hoax  is  discussed  I  recall  the  poetry,  personality,  above 
all,  the  ferocious  portrait  of  Lingwood  Evans,  an  Aus 
tralian  rough-neck,  writing  decadent  verse  that  alter 
nated  between  the  muffled  morbidities  of  Verlaine  and 
the  roaring  free-verse  of  Verhaeren.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  successful  of  hoaxes.  From  editors  and  librarians 
came  pouring  in  queries  as  to  the  new  man.  His  poetry 
was  copied,  praised,  and  decried.  Anarchist,  libertine, 
mystic  he  was.  " The  Father  of  Livor "  and  "The  Avenue 
of  Farthingales,"  the  terrific  and  sinister  parody  on 
"My  Country,  Tis  of  Thee"  made  people  sit  up.  If  an 
I.  W.  W.  boasted  such  a  poet  to-day,  he  would  get  short 
shrift  from  the  government.  Yet  it  was  pure  fun- 
making  of  a  fine  quality.  Vance  Thompson  was  Ling- 
wood  Evans,  Tom  Fleming  made  the  woodcuts,  so  vital 
and  original  in  design. 

Vance  introduced  European  writers  and  painters  who 
since  have  become  celebrated.  Knut  Hamsun,  the  Pole, 
Stanislaw  Przybyszewski — not  a  fiction,  this  name,  but 
the  author  of  Homo  Sapiens,  which  has  been  trans 
lated — Maeterlinck,  Ibsen,  Verlaine,  Verhaeren,  and  the 
entire  lyre  of  the  younger  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
Belgian  poets.  Edvard  Munch,  a  powerful  Norwegian 
artist,  and  Strindberg,  the  Swede,  probably  had  their 
names  printed  for  the  first  time  in  America  in  the  pages 
of  Mile.  New  York.  Rupert  Hughes  wrote  his  most 
brilliant  short -story  for  us,  When  Pan  Moves  to  Harlem, 
in  which  he  relates  a  nocturnal  adventure  of  Slab-sided 
Sal  told  in  purest  Americanese.  (O.  Henry  is  insipid 
compared  with  this  tale,  a  forerunner  to  many.)  I 
looked  after  the  new  names  in  music.  Thompson  wrote 
some  musical  verse  and  in  all  sorts  of  free-rhythms. 


192  STEEPLEJACK 

He  had  been  class-poet  at  Princeton,  but  that  stony  fact 
did  not  prevent  him  from  developing.  His  slender 
volume,  Verse,  I  have  by  me  and  read.  My  favourite 
is  his  Ego  Book,  replete  with  charm  and  wisdom. 
Drink  and  Keep  Sober — the  original  title — is  amusing, 
and  like  his  brochure  on  Woman  is  stuffed  with  fallacies. 
Except  in  Dickens  and  in  Zola  (Doctor  Pascal,  the  taking- 
off  of  Uncle  Antoine  Macquart  by  spontaneous  com 
bustion),  there  is  nothing  to  equal  the  explosion  of  a 
young  Philadelphian  on  the  terrace  at  Monte  Carlo. 
It  is  simply  joyous.  Rum  did  it.  And  at  table  sur 
rounded  by  his  family,  who  were  spattered  with  the  re 
mains  of  the  unhappy  drunkard.  I  wonder  how  this 
"awful  warning"  escaped  the  eagle  eye  of  Billy  Sunday. 
As  for  the  woman  question,  I  can  only  quote  a  few  sen 
tences  from  Mile.  New  York  (an  editorial,  first  fortnight 
in  November,  1898).  Mind  you,  a  man  has  a  right  to 
change  his  mind,  but  he  should  not  leave  behind  him  an 
armoury  of  arguments  to  refute  himself.  He  did  this. 
I  was  then  the  "Gynolatrist."  How  he  mocked  my  old- 
fashioned  attitude  towards  Woman  !  Among  other  things 
this  is  what  he  wrote: 

"Here  in  the  United  States  the  worship  of  Woman  is 
carried  to  ludicrous  lengths.  .  .  .  And  perhaps  in  these 
days  when  the  hens  hold  conventions  and  their  fritinancy 
disturbs  the  ears  of  thoughtful  men,  it  may  not  be  super 
fluous  to  iterate  the  old  truth  that  woman  is  physically, 
mentally  and  morally  inferior  to  man.  She  bears  a  cer 
tain  resemblance  to  the  masculine  type.  She  is,  indeed, 
an  undeveloped  man.  Her  place  in  the  scale  of  human 
life  is  midway  between  the  adolescent  and  the  viril. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  entire  physical  constitution — 
fine  skin,  frail,  bony  structure,  beardless  face,  feeble 


"M'LLE   NEW  YORK"  193 

voice — is  nearer  to  that  of  the  boy  than  the  man.  This 
is  no  place  for  the  consideration  of  the  physiological  proof 
of  the  statement.  The  proportion  of  red  and  white  cor 
puscles,  the  caudal  vertebrae,  resembling  those  of  the 
embryo  or  the  ape;  her  very  method  of  breathing,  which 
is  thoracic  and  not  from  the  diaphragm ;  the  shape  of  the 
head,  like  that  of  a  child  or  a  Kaffir,  the  grey  substance 
of  the  brain,  lighter  than  in  man — on  all  these  points 
and  a  dozen  others  the  craniologists,  biologists  and  an 
thropologists  have  spoken  with  authority.  Woman's 
physical  inferiority  to  man  is  a  fact  beyond  question. 
.  .  .  She  is  indeed  an  interesting  study,  this  adolescent 
animal  with  the  great  white  (not  grey)  brain,  the  phleg 
matic  senses,  and  the  dulled  finger-tips.  But  what  a 
damnable  noise  she  makes  at  this  century's  end !  .  .  . 
In  letters,  painting,  science,  music,  sculpture — nothing. 
When  with  simian — the  feminine  is  nearer  the  simian 
than  the  masculine — ease  they  imitate  the  gestures  of 
an  artist  one  must  always  look  in  the  background  for  a 
man.  Behind  George  Sand  loom  the  pitiful  figures  of 
Jules  Sandeau,  De  Musset,  Chopin;  behind  George  Eliot 
one  sees  the  bearded  face  of  Lewes;  and  so  when  a  fe 
male  novelist  deteriorates  or  improves,  takes  up  a  new 
subject  or  dons  a  new  manner,  one  need  but  lightly  say: 
'Eh  bien!  She  has  taken  a  new  lover.'  .  .  .  Sorotic 
women  argue  that  man  and  woman  started  equal;  that 
it  is  only  man's  tyranny  which  has  degraded  woman  in 
the  scale  of  life.  So  be  it.  Perhaps  this  is  as  good  a 
way  as  any  other  of  satisfying  the  feminine  mind.  It 
begs  the  question  by  acknowledging  the  very  inferiority 
at  issue.  And  when  will  woman  overtake  man  in  his 
ascent?  A  and  B  start  from  a  given  point.  A  travels 
at  a  speed  of  ten  miles  a  day;  B  travels  at  a  rate  of  six 


i94  STEEPLEJACK 

miles  a  day;  when  will  B  overtake  A?  ...  The  hen 
has  a  right  to  cackle  only  on  one  occasion — when  she 
lays  an  egg;  she  never  has  a  right  to  crow,  and  by  reason 
of  imperfect  thoracic  development  she  never  can  crow. 
.  .  .  Dear  God !  the  crowned  and  laurelled  eunuchs  of 
American  literature — professors  with  dandruff  on  the 
coat-collar,  and  bearded  ladies,  and  the  chaste,  pantel- 
leted  spinsters,  and  the  little,  hairy  poets,  all  hungry  and 

timid  and  all  bought  and  sold ' 

A  man  may  alter  his  views  twenty  times,  as  a  snake 
sloughs  its  skin,  but  when  he  writes  such  words,  words 
like  the  virile  ring  of  crossed  blades,  then  he  is  primarily 
a  Caveman.  Who  knows  whether  as  a  sexagenarian  he 
may  not  doff  the  garb  of  civilisation  and  emerge  hairy, 
rugged,  in  a  bearskin,  and  over  his  virile  shoulders  a 
mighty  club !  Beware  Woman !  Even  in  his  Woman, 
the  old  masculine  condescension  peeps  forth.  He  al 
ludes  to  her  as  "little  woman."  In  Vishnuland  what 
Vance? 

I  wrote  many,  so-called  prose-poems,  seduced  by  the 
examples  of  Baudelaire,  Mallarme,  and  Huysmans.  They 
are  to  be  found  scattered  through  Mile.  New  York  and 
Melomaniacs.  Here  is  one,  never  before  reprinted,  from 
Mile.  New  York: 

"She  lay  in  the  Hall  of  the  Mirrors  where,  repeated  in 
evanescent  gestures,  her  person  moved  with  processional 
precision.  She  had  disrobed  to  the  accompaniment  of 
soft,  hidden  music,  and  to  the  unconscious  miming  of 
the  mirrors;  something  of  fear  and  something  of  shame 
were  in  her  heart  as  she  pulled  to  her  pretty  chin  the 
royal  counterpane.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
Iain  in  a  palace,  and  the  night  seemed  to  hum  with  a 


"M'LLE   NEW  YORK"  195 

thousand  harps.  It  was  the  music  and  the  beating  of 
her  heart  that  she  heard,  and  she  wondered  most  at  the 
heavily  scented  atmosphere,  and  smiled  at  the  face  that 
smiled  down  at  her  from  the  shining  ceiling.  Her  plump 
body  sank  in  relaxing  curves;  the  very  couch  seemed  to 
embrace  her.  Then  she  heard  footsteps  and  dared  no 
longer  gaze  into  the  ironic  mirror  overhead.  As  the 
prince  approached  love  loomed  nigh.  There  was  no 
tenderness  in  his  eyes,  and  his  young  forehead  was 
slightly  wrinkled.  It  was  his  nuptial  night;  for  him  was 
waiting  a  fair  girl,  whose  pulses  leapt  to  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  But  he  had  no  words  for  her  when  he  reached 
the  royal  bed  that  stood  in  the  Hall  of  the  Mirrors.  His 
troubled  gaze  drove  the  blood  to  her  heart,  when  he  sat 
beside  her  and  the  music  ceased  and  the  mirrors  grew 
grey  and  misty.  She  had  waited  for  this  moment  since 
her  birth;  their  souls  had  been  woven  together  by  im 
perial  decree,  yet  now  they  circled  about  each  other 
like  two  tall  stars  in  interstellar  depths,  bound  for  eter 
nity  to  tread  in  the  stately  dance  of  the  spheres, 
aeons  apart,  and  destined  never  to  embrace.  With  out 
stretched,  despairing  arms  she  welcomed  her  image  in 
the  air  above  her,  and  her  impassioned,  sorrowful  glance 
married  her  to  her  own  soul.  The  prince  told  her  in 
falsetto  tones  of  his  desire  for  rest,  and  she  welcomed 
him  as  one  would  a  pet  poodle;  beside  his  sleepy  escaping 
soul  she  lay  in  the  Hall  of  the  Mirrors,  where,  repeated 
in  evanescent  gestures,  her  person  moved  in  processional 
sadness." 

What  does  it  mean?  Do  you  remember  the  story  I 
told  you  of  that  farewell  stag  dinner  given  at  the  Maison 
Felix  to  a  certain  tenor  by  his  friends — principally 


196  STEEPLEJACK 

brothers-in-law — before  he  married  an  operetta  soprano? 
My  cryptic  prose  is  the  sequel  of  that  marriage,  which 
was  speedily  dissolved,  because  it  was  not  consummated. 
But  no  one  would  know  this  from  my  tortured  style.  I 
was  very  "precious"  then,  and  suffered,  though  briefly, 
from  the  green-sickness  of  too  ambitious  writers. 

I  tried  my  hand  at  all  sorts  of  imitations.  I  was 
practising  my  scales  in  public.  I  imitated  Maupassant 
in  a  tale,  Fog,  my  first  and  last  essay  in  that  genre  of 
demi-monde;  imitated  Zangwill  in  The  Shofar  Blew  at 
Sunset,  which  brought  from  him  a  very  pleasant  letter; 
imitated  myself  in  Music,  the  Conqueror,  and  in  Frus 
trate,  both  of  which  appeared  in  Melomaniacs.  How  we 
rioted  in  extravagant  comparisons !  I  was  mad  over 
Maggie  Cline  and  in  pompous  prose  I  saluted  her  as  A 
Brunhilda  of  the  Bowery,  I  wrote  of  her,  and  Apollo, 
forgive  me !  "As  Whitman  was  a  great  natural  source, 
an  impulsive  in  our  native  literature,  so  Maggie  Cline, 
the  exponent  of  muscularity  in  song,  is  in  the  musical 
world.  ...  At  the  magic  of  her  voice  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  present  fade  and  you  are  straightway 
transported  to  Eldridge  or  Hester  Street  and  witness 
with  beating  heart  and  brain  on  fire  the  downfall  of  that 
good  man  and  true,  the  doughty  Donovan,  or  the  epical 
fracas  at  McCIoskey's  ("Throw  him  down,  McCIoskey  !") 
I  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  Lilli  Lehmann  or  a  Sarah 
Bernhardt.  It  was  saluted  as  a  "new  note"  in  criticism. 
Yvette  Guilbert  didn't  escape.  I  plastered  her  with  epi 
thets  until  her  own  mother  wouldn't  have  recognised  her. 
"She  is  a  singing  Zola,  this  Yvette  Guilbert.  She  sings 
of  the  rogues,  beggars,  outcasts,  drunkards,  the  shards 
and  estrays  of  life,  the  human  offal,  the  gutter's  refuse. 
She  is  a  singing  Zola,  this  Yvette  Guilbert;  a  porno- 


"M'LLE  NEW  YORK"  197 

graphic  Zola,  a  realist  Zola,  a  Zola  of  bestiality  supreme, 
a  Zola  of  the  love  that  lies  in  wait  and  supplicates  with  a 
grimace."  It  must  be  remembered  that  Yvette  then 
was  not  the  sweet  singer  of  old  French  lyrics.  She  was 
the  "modern"  Yvette,  a  wonderful  "diseuse,"  and  thrice 
as  fascinating  as  in  her  latest  incarnation. 


XXIII 
MY  DREAM-BARN 

About  this  time  I  began  to  suspect  myself.  My 
spiritual  axis  had  shifted.  There  was  somewhere  a 
leakage  of  moral  gas  on  my  premises — as  Henry  James 
remarked  of  D'Annunzio.  I  had  become  dissatisfied 
with  my  life.  Why  all  this  interest  in  the  work  of  other 
men  !  Couldn't  I  play  off  my  own  bat?  Vance  Thomp 
son  encouraged  me  to  write  a  book.  So  did  Philip  Hale. 
(I  must  blame  my  subsequent  crimes  on  some  one.) 
Why  waste  hours  every  day  hearing  music,  seeing  pic 
tures,  and  worse,  writing  of  them?  What's  Hecuba  to 
me?  I  was  becoming  neurotic.  I  could  sympathise  with 
Berlioz  when  he  sneered  at  the  Sonata.  Why  just  a 
sonata  or  a  symphony?  Why  music-drama  or  Shake 
speare?  Why  not  rum  and  rebellion,  or  gals  and  galli 
vanting?  I  knew  by  that  time  I  couldn't  have  all  these 
things.  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gains  his  soul 
but  loseth  love?  I  was  seizing  the  shadow  for  the  sub 
stance,  like  the  dog  in  the  fable.  I  couldn't  marry  more 
than  one  woman  at  a  time  because  of  certain  social 
prejudices.  And  sometimes  a  man's  wife  won't  let  him 
marry  the  girl  he  likes  (women  are  so  unreasonable). 
What  was  I  to  do?  Which  way  to  turn?  Sensibly,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  concluded  that  my  only  hope 
was  a  philistine  life.  Poor  old  bourgeois,  always  getting 
pounded  by  poetical  Bolsheviki;  in  reality  the  bourgeois 
possessing  horse-sense.  Flaubert  warned  his  pupil,  Guy 
de  Maupassant,  that  to  achieve  masterpieces  he  must 

198 


MY  DREAM-BARN  199 

be  peaceful  in  his  life  that  he  might  be  violent  in  his  art. 
Zola  swears  that  Flaubert  led  the  life  of  a  bourgeois, 
writing  instead  of  selling  groceries;  Flaubert,  who  his 
life  long  pursued  the  bourgeois  with  gibes !  Vance 
Thompson  used  to  say  that  an  artist,  whether  poet  or 
painter,  musician  or  sculptor,  should  marry  the  feather 
bed  type  of  woman.  She  protects  and  consoles;  also 
cooks  a  good  dinner.  When  artist  mates  with  artist 
then  comes  the  tug  of  tongues.  No  family  can  harbour 
two  prima  donnas — that  is,  not  without  fur  flying.  The 
artistic  temperament  is  "catty,"  whether  male  or  female. 
Hence  these  tears.  Therefore,  I  steered  a  middle  course. 
It  was  in  1895  I  began  to  study  hard.  Again  I  drew 
up  a  formidable  manifesto  for  my  private  use.  I  assailed 
my  laziness  (of  course,  I've  never  been  lazy.  I've  never 
had  the  time.  It  is  my  spiritual  sloth  I  mean.)  Goaded 
by  my  self-admitted  mediocrity,  I  determined  to  be  a 
contemporary,  if  nothing  more.  There  was  leaking  gas, 
and  my  moral  meter  had  failed  to  register  it.  If  I  had 
gone  down  on  my  shin  bones,  and  echoed  DurtaPs  de 
spairing  prayer  in  A  Rebours,  by  Huysmans,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  the  health  of  my  soul.  Do  you 
recall  it?  "Take  pity,  O  Lord,  on  the  Christian  who 
doubts,  on^the  sceptic  who  desires  to  believe,  on  the 
convict  of  life  who  embarks  alone,  in  the  night,  beneath 
a  sky  no  longer  lit  by  the  consoling  beacons  of  ancient 
faith."  It  has  a  liturgical  ring,  this  invocation. 

But,  as  I  wrote  of  Baudelaire,  I  had  patiently  built 
up  my  soul  as  a  perverse  bird  builds  its  nest: — bits  of 
straw,  the  sobbing  of  women,  clay,  cascades  of  black 
stars,  rags,  leaves,  rotten  wood,  corroding  dreams,  a 
spray  of  roses,  a  pebble's  sparkle,  a  gleam  of  blue  sky, 
arabesques  of  incense  and  verdigris,  and  for  a  ground- 


200  STEEPLEJACK 


tone,  the  abomination  of  desolation.  My  soul  was  a 
cemetery  of  the  seven  sorrows.  I  had  rented  an  Ivory 
Tower,  but  I  had  lost  the  latch-key.  When  She  beckoned 
to  me  from  the  topmost  cell,  my  Princess  of  Mirrors  and 
melancholy,  I  could  only  shrug  despairing  shoulders.  I 
was  a  steeplejack — but  there  were  no  step-ladders  where 
with  to  climb  to  her.  A  man  can't  be  both  a  steeplejack 
and  a  carpenter.  I  could  only  whistle  down  to  the  wind 
and  the  Ideal  never  comes  in  answer  to  whistling.  I  even 
mixed  moral  values  by  quoting  what  Coleridge  attrib 
uted  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds:  "The  greatest  man  is  he 
who  forms  the  taste  of  a  nation;  the  next  greatest  is  he 
who  corrupts  it."  As  I  hadn't  the  power  to  form  the 
taste  of  my  neighbour,  much  less  that  of  a  nation,  I 
proceeded  to  corrupt  my  own.  I  muddled  the  Seven 
Arts  in  a  grand  old  stew.  I  saw  music,  heard  colour, 
tasted  architecture,  smelt  sculpture,  and  fingered  per 
fume.  A  mad  carnival  of  the  senses.  I  sympathised  with 
Des  Esseintes  in  La-Bas,  though  I  didn't  care  for  his 
"mouth-organ"  of  various  liqueurs.  But  I  believed 
that  an  art  could  be  interpreted  in  the  terms  of 
another.  I  read  a  book  by  Suarez  de  Mendoza, 
L' Audition  Coloree,  to  relieve  my  anxiety.  It  is  a  search 
ing  study  in  false  secondary  sensations,  and  deals  with 
"colour-hearing,"  or  "pseudo-photoesthesie."  This  re 
sults  from  association  of  ideas  early  established.  We 
have,  most  of  us,  been  reminded  of  some  far-away  hap 
pening,  usually  sentimental  by  the  odour  of  faded  flowers. 
The  sense  of  smell  plays  a  commanding  role  in  all  sex 
manifestations.  The  Fathers  of  the  Church  knew  this: 
hence  their  stern  admonitions  to  women  using  heady 
sensual  perfumes.  Certain  musical  tones  evoke  certain 
colours.  And  if  you  investigate  you  will  discover  that 
the  aesthetic  terminology  of  painting  resembles  that  of 


MY  DREAM-BARN  201 

music.  I  believed  in  employing  the  whole  keyboard  of 
analogies,  so  my  criticism  often  proved  trying  to  my 
readers,  but  not  to  me.  I  needs  must  educate  them. 
The  arts  are  separate,  yet,  as  Walter  Pater  says,  all 
aspire  to  a  condition  of  music,  as  our  sun  and  planets 
travel  towards  a  central  sun  in  some  remote  constella 
tion.  But  I  abused  the  scheme,  and  I  am  not  sorry. 
"You  write  of  music  as  if  it  were  a  living  thing,"  said 
Arthur  Symons  to  me  in  a  memorable  letter.  Music  is 
a  living  thing  for  me,  as  living  as  any  vital  organism.  It 
lives  when  it  enters  the  porches  of  my  ears,  and  it  is  a 
living  memory.  To  write  about  it  is  quite  hopeless. 
You  can  describe  a  picture,  a  statue,  a  cathedral,  and 
quote  a  poem;  but  you  may  not  describe  a  symphony. 
The  best  way  out  of  the  dilemma  is  to  follow  in  the  foot 
steps  of  the  music-reporter.  Tell  me  a  news  story.  If 
you  attempt  a  subjective  explanation,  you  run  the  risk 
of  not  being  intelligible.  The  technical  method  has  its 
perils;  it  is  understood  only  by  musicians.  None  the 
less  did  I  persevere  in  my  endeavour  to  achieve  a  syn 
thesis  of  the  arts.  The  result  may  be  foreseen.  Yet, 
I  have  heard  music  that  gave  me  the  illusion  of  light,  of 
air,  music  that  was  as  diaphanous  as  the  spider's  web  in 
the  gold  of  the  setting  sun;  music  as  keen  as  a  Damascene 
blade  that  halves  a  lace  veil,  as  melancholy  as  the 
thoughts  of  a  woman  in  travail — but  it  demands  high 
courage  to  make  one's  self  ridiculous,  and  to  write  in 
such  a  style  would  be  grazing  the  fatuous.  Chopin  and 
Shelley  are  alike  to  me,  as  are  Wagner  and  Browning, 
Raphael  and  Mozart,  Beethoven  and  Shakespeare. 

I  lived  at  the  corner  of  Madison  Avenue  and  Seventy- 
sixth  Street  for  fifteen  years  in  the  CarroIIton,  one  of 
the  first  tall  apartment  houses  in  that  section  of  the  city. 


202  STEEPLEJACK 

Big  old-fashioned  rooms,  high  windows,  stone  balconies 
on  the  tenth  floor,  gave  me  plenty  of  light,  air,  and  a 
view  that  was  inspiring.  There  were  few  obstructions 
in  1899  between  my  Dream-Barn  and  Staten  Island.  I 
could  sweep  all  the  East  River  and  the  Hudson,  too.  I 
could  see  the  harbour  maculated  with  craft,  see  the  bay, 
the  Statue  of  Liberty,  steamships  going  and  coming. 
From  my  wide  windows  facing  Central  Park,  I  caught  the 
copper  gleam  of  the  erect  synagogue  at  Seventy-sixth 
Street  and  the  Avenue;  beyond  was  the  placid  toy  lake 
with  its  rim  of  moving  children ;  the  trees  smoothly  swept 
in  a  huge  semi-circle,  at  their  verge  was  the  driveway. 
The  glow  of  summer  afternoons,  the  purity  of  the  air, 
and  the  glancing  metal  on  the  rolling  cars  and  carriages 
made  a  gay  picture  for  me.  My  studio  was  rather  bare. 
I  hate  cluttered-up  rooms.  The  severe  line  of  the  low 
bookcases  was  relieved  by  the  curves  of  my  beloved 
Steinway  grand.  A  few  pictures,  Ernest  Lawson  land 
scapes,  a  head  by  George  Luks,  a  study  by  Thomas  Sully 
completed  the  ensemble.  Add  a  desk,  once  the  property 
of  Thaddeus  Stevens,  and  the  inevitable  cast-iron  lamp 
depending  from  an  oak  beam,  and  you  may  realise  that 
it  was  not  a  difficult  task  to  write  a  dozen  books  amid 
such  surroundings.  Only — those  skylights !  The  roof 
was  almost  composed  of  glass.  There  was  an  excellent 
northern  light  for  artists  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe 
in  any  particular  lighting;  and  during  a  rain-storm  the 
patter  and  swish  kept  me  awake.  I've  heard  sentimental 
persons  say:  "Oh!  to  be  here  as  the  rain  gently  drips. 
What  an  inspiration  !"  But  it  seldom  dripped,  it  usually 
cannonaded,  and  during  a  thunder-storm  the  lightning 
flashes  were  too  intimate  for  nervous  people.  I  recall 
one  night  when  Rafael  Joseffy  was  there.  He  looked 


MY  DREAM-BARN  203 

under  the  pianoforte,  saying  it  was  the  one  spot  where 
he  could  escape  the  blaze  of  the  electric  tempest.  Francis 
Hackett,  the  critic,  came  in,  and  Edward  Marsh,  of  Mac- 
millan's,  and  Frederick  James  Gregg,  of  The  Evening  Sun, 
but  we  could  not  persuade  Joseffy  to  stay.  He  said 
that  we  might  as  well  be  on  the  deck  of  a  ship,  which 
was  true,  and  when  the  building  rocked  in  a  hurricane, 
the  illusion  of  being  afloat  was  strengthened.  I  loved 
my  old  Dream-Barn,  and,  as  one  chap  remarked,  a  news 
paper  man  lives  on  views,  and  I  had  from  my  windows 
not  one,  but  a  dozen. 

Life  and  letters,  pictures  and  music !  They  were  woven 
into  a  close  strand.  I  read,  I  wrote,  I  played.  An  excel 
lent  epitaph.  I  was  forced  to  create  my  own  atmosphere, 
else  grow  stale  and  perish  in  the  vacuum.  The  artistic 
roots  of  our  life  are  not  deeply  bedded  in  the  national 
soul.  I  was,  and  still  am,  a  lover  of  the  new  Irish  litera 
ture.  I  wrote  much  of  Yeats,  George  Russell,  and  Synge, 
later  of  James  Stephens  and  James  Joyce.  I  believe 
that  George  Moore  on  his  native  soil  is  better  than  he  is 
in  England,  or  even  France,  which  is  saying  a  lot.  Ireland 
not  only  has  produced  her  greatest  novelist  in  Moore, 
but  her  most  alluring  lyric  poet  in  Yeats.  I  met  Yeats 
at  the  home  of  John  Quinn.  Synge,  with  his  Maeterlinc- 
kian  atmosphere,  which  modulates  into  the  melancholy 
mists  of  the  Quid  Sod,  created  a  new  thrill.  James 
Stephens  and  his  rich  fantasy,  squeezing  golden  wine 
from  leanest  grapes,  a  genuine  Irish  genius  in  whose 
heart  bubbles  fantasy  and  tears;  and  Joyce,  a  gloriously 
bitter  Banshee,  wailing  Ireland  and  the  Irish  in  a  voice 
all  his  own — these  and  many  of  the  minor  lyrists  quite 
overflowed  our  horizons.  Contemporary  English  litera 
ture  has  nothing  to  equal  these  men  in  originality,  raci- 


204  STEEPLEJACK 

ness,  spiritual  depth,  or  magic.  Edgar  Saltus  always 
has  been  one  of  my  pet  authors.  He  is  elect  among  lovers 
of  style.  Setting  aside  his  fiction,  what  writer,  with  the 
exception  of  William  James,  can  make  such  charming 
and  conclusive  expositions  of  philosophy  as  Mr.  Saltus? 
And  without  pretensions  as  a  professional  metaphysician. 
We  must  go  to  France  for  his  counterpart.  I  possess, 
thanks  to  him,  one  of  the  rare  impressions  of  his  Oscar 
Wilde:  An  Idler's  Impression,  which  fairly  sums  up  the 
personality  and  gifts  of  that  unhappy  Irishman.  Mr. 
Saltus  writes  as  a  coda:  " Apart  from  that,  it" — he  is 
speaking  of  morality — "has  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  arts,  except  the  art  of  never  displeasing,  which 
in  itself  is  the  whole  secret  of  mediocrity.  Oscar  Wilde 
lacked  that  art,  and  I  can  think  of  no  better  epitaph  for 
him."  This  is  Wilde  in  an  epigram.  But  Saltus  is  our 
most  brilliant  writer,  and  epigrams  may  be  expected  from 
him. 

I  have  no  grievances.  I  am  what  I  made  myself, 
therefore,  I  blame  myself  for  my  shortcomings.  As  I 
loathe  the  brand  of  any  particular  school  or  movement  in 
art,  so  I  detest  the  fellow  who  lays  the  blame  of  his 
troubles  on  some  one  else — usually  his  wife.  Friends 
have  praised  me,  but  I  don't  deserve  that  praise.  I 
never  aimed  at  anything  and  if  I  anticipated  others  in 
"discovering" — presumptuous  word — certain  of  the  new 
men  in  Europe  and  America,  it  was  because  of  my  critical 
curiosity;  also  because  a  newspaper  man  has  a  scent  for 
news.  I  mention  "America"  as  some  critics  believe  me 
to  be  on  my  knees  before  European  culture.  The  late 
Percival  Pollard,  a  capital  critic,  devoted  a  chapter  to 
me  in  his  book,  Their  Day  in  Court.  He  said  that  I 
neglected  Americans,  when,  as  I  told  him,  I  gained  my 


MY  DREAM-BARN  205 

living  by  writing  about  the  painting,  composing,  litera 
ture,  and  modelling  of  my  fellow-countrymen,  in  The  Etude, 
Musical  Courier,  Recorder,  Commercial  Advertiser,  Sun, 
Times,  and  the  Philadelphia  Press.  For  nearly  four 
decades  I  have  done  little  else  but  praise  or  blame  our 
native  talents.  Many  a  swan  has  turned  goose,  but  I've 
had  white  swans  also.  American  painters  and  sculptors 
in  particular  have  I  studied,  from  Arthur  B.  Davies  and 
George  Grey  Barnard  to  the  fledgling  illustrator  or  clay 
modeller  of  yesterday.  I  leave  the  American  composers 
to  tell  my  tale.  Nor  do  I  fear  that  I  shall  be  accused 
of  tepidity  concerning  the  merits  of  our  literature.  Hum 
bug  I  hate.  And  one  venerable  humbug  was  punctured 
when  our  new  school  of  landscape — in  this  form  America 
is  eminent — proved  triumphant.  I  quite  agree  with 
Willard  Metcalf  when  he  declared  that  the  further  back 
we  go  in  the  history  of  American  art,  the  worse  we  find 
the  painting.  This  is  not  only  true  of  the  Hudson  and 
kindred  schools,  but  it  holds  good  in  the  case  of  our  por 
trait-painters  of  the  past  century.  Such  leathery  effi 
gies  !  I  never  could  understand  the  superstitious  ven 
eration  entertained  for  second-rate  painters  like  Gilbert 
Stuart,  Copley,  Peale,  and  the  rest  of  the  imitators  of 
Joshua  Reynolds  and  Thomas  Lawrence.  One  brush 
stroke  of  Raeburn  is  worth  the  lot  of  them.  A  Sargent 
or  Chase  portrait  can't  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  with  them.  They  manufactured  historical  por 
traits,  like  the  wooden  heads  of  Washington  by  Stuart, 
and  it  is  as  historical  painters  only  that  they  possess  ar 
tistic  justification.  Mediocrities  all.  And  mediocrities 
were  the  mid-century  Landscapists.  Imitators  of  Con 
stable  and  Gainsborough  and  Claude.  George  Inness 
is  an  example  of  over-rated  merit.  He  was  an  amiable 


206  STEEPLEJACK 

mediocrity  who  saw  our  native  scene  through  English 
spectacles.  Yet  he  fetches  big  prices.  The  mystic  vision 
of  Albert  Ryder,  the  grim  power  of  Winslow  Homer,  or 
the  sumptuous  paint  quality  of  Lawson  are  absent  from 
his  work.  Our  new  landscape-painters  have  used  their 
own  eyes,  and  paint  from  a  personal  palette.  Their  pre 
decessors  are  bogies  for  the  art  dump  in  auction-rooms. 

It  must  be  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  anyhow  eighteen, 
that  I  entertained  Vladimir  de  Pachmann  in  my  Dream- 
Barn  on  Madison  Avenue  at  Seventy-sixth  Street.  The 
tenth  floor,  a  room  as  big  and  as  lofty  as  a  cathedral. 
Alas !  where  are  such  old-fashioned  apartments  to-day  ? 
After  eating  a  duck,  a  kotchka,  cooked  Polish  fashion, 
and  borsch,  beet  soup,  with  numerous  Slavic  side  dishes, 
preceded  by  the  inevitable  zakuska — those  appetite- 
slaying  bonnes  bouches — de  Pachmann  fiercely  demanded 
cognac.  I  was  embarrassed.  Not  drinking  spirits,  I 
had  inconsiderately  forgotten  the  taste  of  others.  De 
Pachmann,  who  is  a  child  at  heart,  too  often  a  naughty 
child,  cried  to  heaven  that  I  was  a  hell  of  a  host !  He 
said  this  in  Russian,  then  in  French,  Italian,  German, 
Polish,  Spanish,  English,  and  wound  up  with  a  hearty 
Hebrew  "Raca!"  which  may  mean  hatred,  or  revenge, 
certainly  something  not  endearing.  But  the  worst  was 
to  come.  There  stood  my  big  Steinway  concert  grand 
piano,  and  he  circled  about  the  instrument  as  if  it  were 
a  dangerous  monster.  Finally  he  sniffed  and  snapped: 
"My  contract  does  not  permit  me  to  play  a  Steinway/' 
I  hadn't  thought  of  asking  him,  fearing  Chopin's  classic 
retort  after  a  dinner-party  at  Paris:  "Madame,  j'ai 
mange  si  peu!"  Finally  I  saw  the  hole  in  the  mill 
stone,  and  excused  myself.  When  I  returned  with  a 


MY  DREAM-BARN  207 

bottle  of  abominable  cognac,  the  little  man's  malicious 
smile  changed  to  a  look  of  ecstasy,  and  he  was  not  a 
drinking  man  ever,  but  he  was  accustomed  to  his  "petit 
verre"  after  dining,  and  was  ill-tempered  when  deprived  of 
it.  Such  is  human  nature,  something  that  puritans,  pro 
hibitionists,  and  other  pernicious  busybodies  will  never 
understand.  And  then  this  wizard  lifted  the  fall-board 
of  my  piano,  and,  quite  forgetful  of  that  "  contract/' 
began  playing.  And  how  he  did  play  !  Ye  gods  !  Bac 
chus,  Apollo,  and  Venus,  and  all  other  pleasant  celestial 
persons,  how  you  must  have  revelled  when  de  Pachmann 
played !  In  the  more  intimate  atmosphere  of  my  apart 
ment  his  music  was  of  a  gossamer  web,  iridescent,  aerial, 
an  seolian  harp  doubled  by  a  diabolic  subtlety.  Albert 
Ross  Parsons,  one  of  the  few  living  pupils  of  Tausig,  in 
reply  to  my  query :  How  did  Joseffy  compare  with  Tausig? 
answered:  "Joseffy  was  like  the  multi-coloured  mist  that 
encircles  a  mighty  mountain;  but  beautiful."  So  Pach- 
mann's  weaving  enchantments  seemed  in  comparison  to 
Godowsky's  profounder  playing. 

And  what  did  Vladimir,  hero  of  double-notes,  play? 
Nothing  but  Godowsky,  then  new  to  me.  Liszt  had  been 
his  god,  but  Godowsky  was  become  his  living  deity.  He 
had  studied,  mastered,  and  memorised  all  those  transcen 
dental  variations  on  Chopin  studies,  the  most  significant 
variations  since  the  Brahms-Paganini  scaling  of  the 
heights  of  Parnassus;  and  I  heard  for  the  first  time  the 
paraphrase  of  Weber's  "Invitation  to  the  Valse,"  a  much 
more  viable  arrangement  than  Tausig's;  also  thrice  as 
difficult.  However,  technique,  as  sheer  technique,  does 
not  enter  into  the  musical  zone  of  Godowsky.  He  has 
restored  polyphony  to  its  central  position,  thus  bettering 
in  that  respect  Chopin,  Schumann,  and  Liszt.  I  have 


208  STEEPLEJACK 

called  attention  elsewhere  to  Godowsky's  solo  sonata, 
which  evokes  images  of  Chopin  and  Brahms  and  Liszt 
— Liszt  only  in  the  scherzo.  Instead  of  exhuming  such  an 
"ungrateful,"  unpianistic  composition  as  Tschaikovsky's 
Sonata  in  G,  pianists  of  calibre  might  more  profitably 
introduce  the  Godowsky  work.  He  is  too  modest  or  else 
too  indifferent  to  put  it  on  his  programme.  It  "lies"  so 
well  for  the  keyboard,  yet  there  is  no  denying  its  difficul 
ties,  chiefly  polyphonic;  the  patterns  are  intricate, 
though  free  from  the  clogging  effects  of  the  Brahms 
sonatas.  De  Pachmann  delighted  his  two  auditors  that 
night  from  10  P.  M.  to  3  A.  M.  It  is  safe  to  wager  that  the 
old  CarroIIton  never  heard  such  music-making  before  or 
since.  When  he  left,  happy  over  his  triumph — I  was 
actually  flabbergasted  by  the  new  music — he  whispered: 
"Hein!  What  you  think!  You  think  I  can  play  this 
wonderful  music?  You  are  mistaken.  Wait  till  you 
hear  Leopold  Godowsky  play.  We  are  all  woodchoppers, 
compared  with  him!"  Curiously  enough,  the  last  is  the 
identical  phrase  uttered  by  Anton  Rubinstein  in  regard 
to  Franz  Liszt.  Perhaps  it  was  a  quotation,  but  de 
Pachmann  meant  it.  It  was  the  sincerest  sentiment  I 
had  heard  from  his  often  insincere  lips.  We  were  all 
three  surprised  to  find  a  score  of  people  camping  out  on 
the  curved  stairway  and  passages,  the  idealist,  a  coloured 
lad  who  ran  the  elevator,  having  succumbed  to  sleep. 
This  impromptu  Godowsky  recital  by  a  marvellous  pian 
ist,  for  de  Pachmann  was  a  marvel  in  his  time,  must 
have  made  a  hit  with  my  neighbours.  It  did  with 
me,  and  when  Godowsky  returned  to  New  York — I  had 
last  heard  him  in  the  middle  nineties  of  the  previous 
century — I  lost  no  time  in  hearing  him  play  in  his  inimita 
ble  manner  those  same  works.  A  pianist  who  can  win 


MY  DREAM-BARN  209 

the  heartiest  admiration  of  such  contemporaries  as  de 
Pachmann  and  Joseffy  and  Josef  Hofmann — I  could 
adduce  many  other  names — must  be  a  unique  artist. 
And  that  Godowsky  is. 

Among  the  younger  American  poets  I  find  one  of 
genuine  importance,  not  alone  because  of  his  potentiali 
ties,  but  because  of  his  actual  performance.  George 
Cabot  Lodge,  son  of  Senator  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  died 
in  the  very  harvest  time  of  his  undoubted  genius.  In  his 
Introduction  to  the  two  volumes  of  the  Poems  and 
Dramas,  Theodore  Roosevelt  has  never  written  with  such 
a  mingling  of  perspicacity  and  tempered  enthusiasm. 
Young  Lodge  was  a  poet  and  his  versatility  may  be  noted 
in  these  books.  In  his  sonnets  and  lyrics  he  paid  the  ac 
customed  tribute  of  youth  to  influences  such  as  Milton, 
Wordsworth,  Meredith,  Browning,  Tennyson,  and  Swin 
burne.  He  could  mimic  Walt  Whitman,  and  he  early 
succumbed  to  Schopenhauer  and  Baudelaire.  In  at 
least  one  of  his  dramas,  I  find  the  cosmic  ecstasy  of 
Nietzsche,  the  doctrine  of  the  Eternal  Return.  But 
Lodge  had  assimilated  a  half-dozen  cultures,  and  had 
passed  far  out  to  sea  the  perilous  rocks  of  imitation  upon 
which  so  many  lesser  talents  have  come  to  grief.  When 
we  consider  as  an  achievement  his  "Herakles,"  we  are 
amazed.  The  poet,  the  Maker  is  before  us,  and  in  re- 
clothing  the  antique  and  tragic  myth  in  his  own  lovely 
garment  of  speech,  he  is,  nevertheless,  a  modern  of  his 
own  times.  I  know  few  poets  with  this  sense  of  the  vital 
present,  added  to  a  divination  and  an  evocation  of  "old 
unhappy  far-off  things,  and  battle  long  ago."  His  figures 
are  not  fashioned  with  scholastic  black  magic,  but  are 
living  beings,  loving,  hating,  suffering,  and  in  conflict 


210 


STEEPLEJACK 


with  ineluctable  destiny.  He  had  the  lyric  art  and  also 
the  architectural.  He  was  a  singer  and  a  builder  of  the 
lofty  rhyme.  George  Cabot  Lodge  had  voice  and  vision. 
His  Life,  by  Henry  Adams,  proves  him  to  have  been  a 
young  man  beloved  by  his  friends,  among  whom  were 
Langdon  Mitchell  and  the  late  Sir  Cecil  Spring-Rice. 
I  can  only  add  here  my  humble  mite  of  admiration  and 
affection  to  the  names  of  the  vanished  genius. 

"Men  need  not  be  common  because  there  are  many; 
but  the  infection  of  commonness  once  begun  in  the 
many,  what  dulness  in  their  future!  .  .  .  more  piece 
meal  pictures,  more  colonial  poetry,  more  young  nations 
with  withered  traditions.  Yet  it  is  before  this  prospect 
that  the  provincial  overseas  lifts  up  its  voice  in  a  boast, 
or  promise  common  enough  among  the  incapable  young, 
but  pardonable  only  in  senility.  He  promised  the  world 
a  literature,  an  art,  that  shall  be  new  because  his  forest 
is  untracked  and  his  town  just  built.  But  what  the  new 
ness  is  he  cannot  tell."  Ponder  these  words.  They 
occur  in  an  essay  by  Alice  Meynell,  entitled  "Decivilised," 
and  contained  in  a  slender  volume  called  The  Rhythm  of 
Life.  Most  of  us  dislike,  as  did  James  Russell  Lowell,  a 
"certain  condescension  in  foreigners,"  yet  the  mellow 
wisdom  of  this  Englishwoman  should  not  be  missed.  The 
deadly  hand  of  vulgarity  is  upon  the  Seven  Arts.  Never 
have  the  lowlands  so  overflowed  their  ooze  and  muddied 
waters  above  the  level  of  our  once  aristocratic  highlands 
of  taste.  Music  alone  has  thus  far  resisted  the  invasion 
of  low  ideals,  but  in  opera  the  edifice  is  already  tottering. 
Poetry,  fiction,  the  theatres —  Alas !  But  I  am  opti 
mistic  withal.  No  nation  boasting  such  high  heroisms, 
no  nation  after  such  a  baptism  of  blood  and  fire  can  long 
dally  in  the  swamp  of  the  banal  or  the  vulgar.  And  I 


MY  DREAM-BARN  211 

know  that  I  am  not  alone  in  my  hope  of  an  approaching 
renascence  of  the  arts  in  our  beloved  America. 

New  York,  like  London,  is  a  city  where  you  can  dis 
appear  from  the  view  of  your  own  little  world  by  simply 
crossing  to  the  other  side  of  the  street.  When  I  left  the 
theatres  for  art,  I  also  left  Broadway  and  patrolled  Fifth 
Avenue,  which  is  picture-land.  I  was  reported  "missing" 
by  my  friends  the  actors,  dramatic  critics,  and  managers. 
When  I  ceased  writing  about  music  and  musicians  and 
devoted  my  time  to  literary  criticism,  I  was  supposed  to 
be  in  Europe.  Curious  vast  city,  where  you  are  dead 
if  you  stay  away  from  your  usual  haunts  a  day!  (I 
fancy  the  wish  is  father  to  the  thought.)  Yet  I  never 
was  idle,  not  even  in  Europe.  I  was  breasting  in  another 
current;  that's  all.  There  were  rumours  that  I  had  re 
tired  to  a  monastery.  I  read  this  in  a  musical  journal. 
"What  a  recluse  our  erstwhile  ubiquitous  friend,  James 
Huneker,  has  become."  I  was  not  a  recluse,  I  merely 
stayed  away  from  Carnegie  Hall  and  the  Opera  House, 
where  musical  folk  mostly  do  congregate,  hence  the  hasty 
inference.  It  is  true,  the  story  that  one  family  can  live 
next  door  to  another  for  years  and  not  know  names. 
That  is  a  little  trait  of  Gotham.  We  are  not  neighbourly, 
and  while  I  remember  Yorkville  and  Harlem  when  people 
sat  on  their  "stoops"  of  summer  nights,  that  time  has 
gone.  New  Cosmopolis  is  no  place  for  provincial  customs. 

I  mention  this  "recluse"  story  because  I  have  been 
often  teased  by  my  friends  on  the  subject.  When  I 
turned  up  at  the  opera,  I  would  be  greeted  with  "Hello, 
Farmer!"  I  begin  my  morning  with  Bach,  end  with 
Bach.  Bach  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  music.  But  en 
joyable  as  it  is  to  read  the  charming  fiction  of  an  un 
known  listener,  an  inscription  in  one  of  his  books  by 


212  STEEPLEJACK 

Arthur  Symons  is  still  more  gratifying.  It  runs:  "To 
James  Huneker  in  memory  of  the  night  when  he  played 
Chopin  at  Lauderdale  Mansions.  May  31,  1905."  I 
had  played  there  in  May,  1903,  when  I  first  met  the  dis 
tinguished  Englishman,  one  of  the  few  critics  since  Walter 
Pater  who  writes  criticism  as  if  it  were  a  fine  art  and  not 
a  "dismal  science." 

I  love  the  high  places  of  our  world.  I  am  never  giddy 
when  standing  on  balconies,  or  looking  over  precipices, 
or  swooping  aloft,  in  an  airplane.  Possibly  fifteen  years 
on  a  tenth  floor  accustomed  my  eyes  to  vast  perspectives. 
But,  contrariwise,  when  I  am  in  a  small  room,  or  under 
ground,  or  in  a  cave,  even  though  it  be  the  Mammoth 
Cave  in  Kentucky,  I  feel  that  death  is  not  afar.  Once 
in  the  catacombs  at  Rome  I  nearly  suffocated,  more  from 
the  idea  than  the  reality,  of  being  buried  alive.  I  believe 
the  name  of  this  aversion  to  enclosed  space  is  Claustro 
phobia,  and  I  am  convinced  that  in  my  case  it  is  a  pro 
drome  of  apoplexy.  Important,  if  true.  Yet  the  trait 
may  have  influenced  my  mental  attitude  towards  the 
arts.  I  shan't  say  that  I  have  no  prejudices,  for  then  I 
should  be  a  colourless  monster.  It  is  his  prejudices  that 
makes  vital  a  critic's  work.  George  Moore  has  rather 
horridly  suggested  that  a  critic  is  always  remembered 
by  his  mistakes — which  are  his  prejudices  expressed. 
Catholicity  in  taste  and  judgment  has  been  my  aim, 
sometimes  my  undoing.  The  half  is  better  than  the 
whole,  but  for  me  the  too  much  is  too  little.  Again  a 
case  of  personal  temperament. 


XXIV 
MY  ZOO 

In  my  artistic  and  literary  Zoo  there  are  many 
queer  creatures,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  them 
all  freaks.  Brahms  and  Stendhal  are  not  freaks,  though, 
with  the  innate  perversity  that  lurks  in  the  heart  of  critics, 
I  was  asked  why  I  didn't  write  of  Beethoven  when  I 
had  made  an  elaborate  study  of  Brahms,  or  about  Balzac, 
when  I  revived  the  name  of  Henry  Beyle.  My  answer  is 
simplicity  itself:  because  at  the  time  I  preferred  Brahms 
and  Stendhal.  Not  that  I  placed  them  near  the  thrones 
of  Beethoven  and  Balzac,  but  as  worthy  of  the  sincere 
attention  of  a  critic;  besides,  Beethoven  and  Balzac,  like 
Shakespeare,  have  been  the  themes  of  the  master  minds  of 
criticism:  Goethe,  Sainte-Beuve,  Taine,  Georg  Brandes. 
It  was  the  same  when  I  defended  Ibsen,  and  "discovered" 
Strindberg.  I  suppose  that  my  titles  aroused  the  notion 
that  the  talented  men  and  women  of  whom  I  wrote  were 
semi-lunatics.  Nietzsche  died  a  melancholy  invalid,  but 
he  was  never  mad;  neurasthenic,  I  should  say.  Maeter 
linck  is  the  sanest  of  men.  So  was  Liszt,  so  Chopin. 
However,  I  am  not  setting  up  an  alibi  for  the  sanity  of 
my  favourite  artists  and  writers.  It  is  not  necessary. 
There  is,  take  it  by  and  large,  more  madness  among  medi 
ocre  persons.  A  little  madness  is  a  necessary  ingredient 
in  the  composition  of  genius.  Nor  do  I  claim  that  my 
apes,  peacocks,  unicorns,  egoists,  visionaries,  melo- 
maniacs  and  steeplejacks  are  all  geniuses.  Again,  medi 
ocrity  is  to  the  fore,  a  mediocrity  tempered  by  eccen- 

213 


2i4  STEEPLEJACK 

tricities.  There  is  no  bigger  humbug  than  the  fellow 
who  sports  the  insignia  of  "genius,"  the  long  hair  and 
doubtful  linen,  the  alcoholism  and  the  boresome  boast 
ing.  As  Charlie  McLellan  said  of  one  man — who  thought 
he  looked  like  Shakespeare  because  he  had  a  high,  bald 
forehead,  and  hair  worn  as  in  the  Chandos  portrait — "I 
dare  him  to  keep  his  hat  on  !"  The  shining  dome  exposed 
the  man,  and  made  an  impression  on  the  unthinking; 
his  hat  on  and  he  became  Mr.  Everyman.  Shave  some  of 
the  Shavians  and  naught  remains.  But  I  never  bothered 
with  the  externals  of  such  "geniuses." 

My  most  successful  book  was  Iconoclasts  (1905).  It 
is  my  "best  seller,"  though  Chopin  is  a  close  second. 
My  favourite  book  is  Egoists,  consequently,  it  has  been 
the  most  assailed.  I  have  never  attempted  the  didactic, 
not  even  in  my  various  educational  editions  of  Chopin, 
Brahms,  Tschaikovsky,  or  Richard  Strauss.  I  collabor 
ated  with  Rafael  Joseffy  in  the  new  Schirmer  edition  of 
Chopin,  but  confined  my  analysis  to  non-technicalities, 
though  in  my  Chopin,  two-thirds  of  the  volume  is  purely 
technical.  In  the  case  of  Egoists,  I  let  the  grouping  sig 
nify  its  individualistic  tendency.  William  James  in  one 
of  his  letters  complains  that  the  book  lacked  "conse- 
quenz,"  to  which  I  cheerfully  agreed.  I  prefer  to  sug 
gest  rather  than  explain;  it  is  an  oblique  method,  but  so 
am  I  constituted.  That  is  why  I  am,  in  a  minor  degree, 
a  symbolist.  The  majority  of  critical  writings,  here  and 
in  England,  are  as  insipid  as  a  bald  hoarding.  In  France 
criticism  is  an  art,  and  I  have  long  worshipped  at  the 
shrines  of  Sainte-Beuve,  Taine,  and  Anatole  France. 
But  my  favourite  books,  because  they  were  despised  and 
rejected,  are  my  Melomaniacs  and  Visionaries.  Mr.  H. 
L.  Mencken,  brilliant  and  individual  critic,  to  whom  I  owe 


MY  ZOO  215 


more  than  a  lakh  of  metaphorical  rupees  for  his  interest 
in  my  work,  wrote  that  I  hadn't  much  talent  for  fic 
tion.  And  it  was  the  one  thing  of  which  I  had  hoped  he 
would  say  the  reverse;  not  that  I  think  I  have,  but  when 
you  possess  a  weakness  it  is  always  nice  to  be  coddled. 
But  Mr.  Mencken  is  no  coddler.  Furthermore,  he  best 
likes  a  little  volume  of  parodies,  entitled  Old  Fogy,  which 
first  appeared  in  The  Etude.  None  the  less,  I  shall  not 
lose  courage.  One  of  my  stories,  The  Lord's  Prayer  in  B, 
is  in  three  foreign  languages.  It  was  written  while  musi 
cal  tones  drove  me  frantic.  Hence  the  leading-motive; 
torture  by  tonal  reiteration.  Octave  Mirbeau  used  the 
same  theme  in  his  Le  Jardin  des  Supplices ;  a  bell  is  tolled 
over  the  head  of  a  criminal  in  China,  who  dies  from  the 
noise.  My  Lord's  Prayer  in  B  first  appeared  in  The 
Musical  Courier,  March,  1896;  later  it  headed  the  tales 
comprised  in  Melomaniacs.  Therein  I  tried  to  bottle 
my  chimeras.  After  the  book  came  out,  I  met  Jeannette 
Gilder,  and  she  reproached  me:  "You  of  all  men,  from 
you  I  expected  the  real  fiction  about  music."  I  replied: 
"It  is  not  only  about  music,  but  it  is  music  itself,"  and 
then  wondered  what  I  meant.  I  had  avoided  the  senti 
mental  raptures  of  the  Charles  Auchester  and  The  First 
Violin  type  of  musical  novels,  endeavouring  to  make  music 
the  hero.  That  is  why  Arthur  Symons  said  that  I  wrote 
as  if  music  was  a  living  thing.  I  know  of  no  other  book 
of  musical  fiction,  that  is,  music  dealt  with  imaginatively, 
like  Melomaniacs.  It  derives  a  little  from  E.  T.  W. 
Hoffmann  and  his  grotesques,  and  it  leans  a  lot  on  Poe, 
who  with  Chopin  was  my  earliest  passion.  But  the 
treatment  is  my  own.  The  trouble  is  that  these  stories 
demand  both  a  trained  musical  reader  and  a  lover  of 
fiction — not  a  combination  to  be  found  growing  on 


216  STEEPLEJACK 

grapevines.  Visionaries  is  less  novel.  In  it  The  Third 
Kingdom  is  the  best  invention,  and  that  may  have  un 
consciously  stemmed  from  that  golden  casuist,  Anatole 
France.  But  enough  of  this  gossip  about  my  step 
children,  my  paper  hostages  to  fortune.  I  have  referred 
to  my  writings  for  one  reason:  I  believe  such  references 
will  help  my  publishers  up  the  steep  and  stony  path  of 
their  profession.  One's  publishers  should  be  encour 
aged.  By  giving  your  precious  ideas  between  covers 
to  a  world  eager  for  them  they  also,  after  infinite  pains, 
may  earn  an  humble  competency.  You  have  done  a 
good  deed. 


XXV 
MY  BEST  FRIEND 

Enemies  are  sometimes  friends  in  disguise.  Listen ! 
When  I  heard  the  news  I  was  writing  a  letter  to  John 
Quinn,  my  legal  counsel,  in  which  I  exposed  with  merciless 
logic  and  rhetorical  emphasis  the  deceit  and  villainy  of 
Fulbert.  The  thing  was  as  plain  as  daylight.  Not  a 
link  in  my  chain  of  wrathful  accusations  seemed  weak 
or  misplaced.  The  man  was  a  liar;  perhaps  worse;  in 
any  case,  a  cold-hearted  wretch.  Had  he  not  said  in 
public  print  and  under  a  flaring,  a  vulgar  head-line  that 
an  aunt  had  been  the  muse  of  Ibsen,  hence  my  admiration 
for  the  Norwegian  and  his  work.  It  was  pure  falsehood. 
My  aunt  probably  read  Tupper  and  Felicia  Hemans,  and 
while  she  had  been  in  Norway — she  was  the  wife  of  a 
sea-captain,  a  Norwegian,  Thrane  by  name — she  may 
have  seen  the  poet,  but  that  she  played  the  flattering 
role  of  his  muse  is  doubtful.  His  own  wife's  sister, 
Camilla  CoIIett,  was  one  for  a  brief  period.  It  was  the 
way  Fulbert  put  the  thing  that  had  infuriated  me. 
And  as  I  paused  in  my  writing,  Tarver  rushed  in  with 
the  evening  paper.  Fulbert  was  dead.  Yes,  Fulbert, 
my  chief  foe,  the  foe  that  had  watched  and  blocked 
every  move  in  my  career,  had  dropped  dead  after  leav 
ing  his  office,  where,  no  doubt,  he  had  written  another 
of  his  vile  attacks  upon  my  new  book.  But  Fulbert  dead  ! 
I  turned  towards  the  window  so  as  to  keep  from  my 
friend  the  emotion  that  wrinkled  my  lips.  Fulbert 

217 


218  STEEPLEJACK 


dead.  At  last.  Had  I  even  longed  for  this  consumma 
tion?  How  often  had  I  not  prayed  to  the  gods,  prayed 
in  the  night  that  the  malicious  devil  who  boldly  signed 
himself  Fulbert,  would,  when  besotted  by  drink,  drug 
himself  into  imbecility.  And  now  he  was  dead,  the 
venomous  dog. 

"Fulbert  dead?"  I  said  in  almost  a  jocular  tone. 
"What  in  the  world  will  I  do  for  an  enemy?  You 
know,  Tarver,  he  was  mine  ancient  enemy,  and  I  hold  as 
a  theory  that  a  man's  enemies  do  him  less  ill  than  his 
friends,  and — "  "For  heaven's  sake,  stop  your  cold 
blooded  chatter  and  let  the  poor  devil  rest/1  When  we 
reached  the  street  Tarver  proposed  a  drink,  but  I  refused. 
I  did  not  feel  in  the  humour.  He  lifted  cynical  eyebrows. 
"Oh,  very  well,  if  you  expect  the  same  fate  as  your  friend 
Fulbert.  I'll  leave  you  to  your  meditations.  I  suppose 
you  will  send  a  wreath  to  the  funeral."  And  this  from 
the  man  who  a  moment  before  had  called  me  cold 
blooded.  I  was  glad  to  be  alone.  What  beastly  wit. 
No,  I  wouldn't  send  flowers,  nor  would  I  write  to  the 
widow.  I  had  known  her  long  before  her  marriage  to 
Fulbert.  Poor  Fulbert.  Well,  why  not?  The  fellow 
was  dead,  and  as  Helen  had  married  him,  it  was  her 
affair — pshaw !  He  had  never  wanted  her — really.  Only 
— Fulbert.  Why  that  particular  man?  Why  Fulbert? 
I  walked  rapidly,  unconsciously  frowning.  Several  ac 
quaintances  passed,  but  I  pretended  not  to  see  them. 
They  smiled.  Decidedly  they  took  me  for  a  queer  bird. 
All  writers  are  queer.  One  man  familiarly  hooked  my 
arm  with  his  stick:  "Hello  there,  old  chappie.  I  see  your 
friend  has  passed  in  his  chips.  Going  to  wear  crepe?" 
"Oh!  for  God's  sake!"  my  humour  was  black;  "don't 
mock  at  death."  "Phew!"  was  all  I  heard  as  I  turned 


MY  BEST   FRIEND  219 

into  a  side  street,  ruminating  on  that  already  old  yet 
ever  new  text:  Fulbert  dead. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  I  began  to  suffer  from  a 
certain  inquietude.  Some  poison  was  fermenting  in  my 
veins.  My  nerves  played  me  tricks.  I  could  not  work. 
Instead,  I  stared  at  the  city,  streaked  like  a  map,  beneath 
my  tenth-floor  apartment.  I  could  see  the  two  cities 
meet  at  the  Battery,  and  I  watched  the  white,  fleecy 
cloud-boulders,  vanguard  of  a  thunder-storm,  move  in 
processional  splendour  across  the  lower  bay.  I  could  not 
read,  I  could  not  write.  My  new  book  had  appeared 
and  a  glance  at  the  press-clippings  told  me  that  it  was 
being  praised.  Not  a  club  stroke  from  hostile  critic, 
not  an  acid  stab  from  an  enemy.  Had  I  enemies  no 
longer?  Had  they  been  concentrated  in  the  person  of 
Fulbert,  that  Fulbert  who  was  dead  and  cremated?  I 
pondered  the  idea.  My  own  careless  words  like  curses 
were  coming  home  to  roost  in  my  skull.  Without  an 
enemy,  I  had  often  said,  a  man  of  talent  is  like  unploughed 
soil.  What  an  infernal  paradox.  An  enemy — why,  I 
had  them  by  the  score.  Yet  not  such  a  master-hand  as 
Fulbert.  Fulbert  it  was  who  had  eagerly  awaited  my 
first  book  and,  with  a  devilishness  almost  feminine,  had 
praised  it,  pouring  into  every  phrase  a  double-distilled 
corrosive  flattery  that  withered  all  it  touched.  The 
poor  little  volume  soon  shrivelled  up  and  died.  In  the 
face  of  such  diabolic  appreciation  all  other  criticism  must 
perforce  pale  or  seem  fatuous.  This  had  been  a  favourite 
method  of  the  dead  man.  He  alone  possessed  the  subtle 
syllabic  tact  for  such  critical  assassinations.  And  my 
first  fiction  !  That  had  succumbed  to  the  trumpet-blasts 
of  laughter;  consummately  Rabelaisian;  ventral  laughter 
permeated  by  false  bonhomie.  Focussing  the  strong 


220  STEEPLEJACK 

light  of  ridicule  upon  my  ideas,  perverting  my  intention, 
and  caricaturing  my  heroics,  Fulbert  slaughtered  my 
book  so  merrily  withal  that  no  suspicion  attached  to  the 
butcher;  the  butchery  itself  had  been  irresistibly  comical. 
So  it  had  gone  on  for  years;  book  after  book  had  been 
attacked  in  the  same  surprisingly  cruel  and  original 
fashion.  The  ingenuity  of  Fulbert  was  Satanic.  He 
always  bowed  pleasantly  to  his  victim.  Once,  at  a 
friendly  board  we  met.  Mrs.  Fulbert  was  in  the  com 
pany,  and  her  husband,  as  if  to  show  off  his  critical 
paces,  cried  across  the  table  to  me:  "Ah!  my  old  friend 
the  writer.  Are  you  going  to  give  us  your  accustomed 
*  improvisation '  on  the  piano  this  evening?''  Mrs.  Ful 
bert  turned  her  head  so  as  not  to  smile  in  my  face.  The 
others  laughed.  So  did  I.  But  I  almost  strangled  in 
the  effort.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  widow.  Of  course,  the 
critic  had  died  without  leaving  her  a  penny — after  a 
manner  of  most  critics — and  the  poor  woman  in  an  unin 
teresting  condition,  was  forced  to  move  from  the  city. 
Did  it  concern  me?  I  couldn't  gloat  over  her  trouble. 
I  couldn't  revenge  myself  by  asking  her  hand  in  marriage. 
I  am  not  of  a  melodramatic  turn.  Fulbert  was  dead. 
And  I  would  follow  him  in  a  few  years;  perhaps  sooner 
than  I  expected.  I  gazed  across  the  East  River.  The 
bridges  with  their  gaunt  framework  evoked  the  image  of 
some  archaic  heaven-storming  machine,  some  impious 
Babel  built  by  God-hating  men  seeking  to  emulate  the 
secret  of  the  skies.  Without  knowing  why  I  sighed. 
Life  seemed  empty.  My  old  ambitions  relaxed  and  fell 
away.  Wasn't  my  hatred  only  a  surface  irritation,  an 
author's  lacerated  vanity?  Hadn't  Fulbert's  attacks 
stung  my  sensitive  epidermis  forcing  me  to  fight,  urging 
me  to  finer  work,  to  wider  conquests?  Would  indis- 


MY  BEST   FRIEND  221 

criminate  praise  have  accomplished  a  like  result?  In  a 
grim  mood,  I  again  turned  to  the  window  and  launched 
my  gaze  towards  Long  Island.  Over  there,  over  at  Fresh- 
pond,  what  was  once  Fulbert  now  lay  enclosed  in  an  urn. 
I  could  not  keep  my  thoughts  from  that  urn.  In  it 
were  the  burned  bones  of  my  adversary.  Mechanically 
I  picked  up  my  hat  and  went  down  into  the  street. 
Presently  I  was  riding  across  Williamsburg  bridge. 

The  approach  was  like  the  road  to  any  cemetery. 
Little  one-story  edifices  with  black  gaping  entrances, 
displayed  mortuary  ornaments,  metallic  wreaths,  hideous 
emblems,  banners  of  supreme  ugliness,  marble  shafts 
pointing  dirty  white  digits  to  the  sky,  botched  carved 
angels  perched  on  shapeless  lumps  of  granite — all  invit 
ing  the  sorrowing,  sentimental  poor  to  purchase,  and  at 
bargain  prices.  Opposite  the  cemetery  was  a  huge 
hostelry  for  man,  beast,  and  mourners,  which  funeral 
parties  frequented,  there  to  enjoy  the  baked  meats  and 
copious  fluid  refreshment.  Oh !  the  desperate  jollity  of 
those  gatherings  at  which  the  bereaved  were  inwardly 
strengthened  and  helped  by  their  friends  to  bear  their 
burden  of  woe  in  an  unfeeling  world.  No  matter  the 
doleful  faces  coming,  on  departing  they  were  flushed  and 
bore  an  expression  of  specious  comfort.  Every  day  there 
was  a  sepulchral  comminglement  of  black-robed  women, 
children,  men,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  gabbling,  excitedly 
swallowing  the  food  hastily  set  before  them;  while  the 
waiters,  accustomed  to  this  bedlam  of  gluttony  and 
grief,  rushed  in  and  around  the  groups,  seated  or  stand 
ing,  frantic  because  of  conflicting  orders,  glad  to  pitch 
anything  on  the  table,  hardly  waiting  for  their  fees,  and 
never  thanking  guests  for  tips.  From  the  adjacent  crema 
tory,  a  veritable  mausoleum,  came  the  sound  of  solemn 


222  STEEPLEJACK 

music.  And  from  a  tall  chimney  could  be  seen  a  clear 
flame,  the  essence  of  some  burned  body  winging  its  way 
to  the  infinite  inane. 

I  hastily  passed  this  melancholy  banquet  hall  and 
found  myself  in  the  Columbarium.  It  was  an  impressive 
chamber.  No  hint  of  furnace.  The  architecture  with 
its  calm  classic  touch  was  thrown  into  relief  by  the  severe 
tones  of  an  organ,  hidden  from  view.  A  service  had  con 
cluded.  Some  lingered  to  watch  their  precious  dead 
consigned  to  the  purifying  fire.  With  reverential  feel 
ings  I  saw  the  speedy  end  of  a  fellow  human,  contrasting 
this  antique  mode  with  a  ghastly  open  grave,  clods  of 
earth  harshly  falling  upon  the  coffin.  The  music  ceased. 
Questioning  an  attendant  I  was  directed  to  an  upper 
gallery.  There,  after  a  short  search,  I  found  a  compart 
ment  in  which  was  lodged  a  new  urn.  It  bore  the  name 
of  my  enemy.  A  great  loneliness  invaded  my  soul. 
There  was  Fulbert  dead,  and  forever  dead.  No  one  had 
so  hated  me.  No  one  had  taken  such  an  interest  in  me. 
When  I  had  felt  this  critical  surgeon's  knife  in  my  inner 
most  fibres,  I  realised  that  the  surgeon  had  performed 
his  task  with  a  loving  hatred.  He  knew  every  line  I 
had  written.  He  had  read  me,  studied  me,  gloried  in 
me  as  a  field  on  which  to  display  his  wit  and  cruelty. 
What  if  he  did  wound  the  victim?  Does  the  life-saver 
hate  you  when  he  scientifically  carves  your  leg  from  your 
body?  Are  you  not  merely  a  subject  for  his  technical 
skill?  Did  Fulbert  ever  hate  me?  Did  I  not  serve  him 
as  an  excuse  to  exhibit  his  pen  prowess?  Who  had  so 
faithfully  kept  my  name  before  the  public?  Who  would 
ever  take  the  same  interest?  He  was  my  spiritual  run 
ning-mate.  I  was  made  to  go  in  double-harness  with  him; 
created  by  the  ironical  gods  on  high  who  mock  at  the 


MY  BEST  FRIEND  223 

teased  destinies  of  suffering  humanity.  With  blurred 
eyes,  I  spied  upon  the  urn.  I  read  the  inscription: 
"  Henry  Fulbert.  Aged  45  years."  Nothing  more.  And 
then  leaning  heavily  against  the  enclosure,  my  cheeks 
feverish,  I  spoke  aloud:  "He  was  my  best  friend.  I  am 
lonely  without  Fulbert." 


XXVI 
AUTOGRAPH  LETTERS 

Yes,  and  autographed  pictures,  how  many?  My 
correspondence  with  famous  men  and  women,  well- 
known  writers,  musicians,  painters,  sculptors,  actors, 
clergymen,  and  men  in  political  life  would  make  a 
fat  volume,  especially  if  I  included  their  signed  photo 
graphs.  Many  of  my  correspondents  I  never  met, 
never  even  saw.  Yet  truly  I  could  borrow  Browning's 
title:  "How  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary,"  as  a  caption  for 
copious  comment  on  interesting  people.  In  1884  or  1885, 
I  received  a  letter,  undated,  from  Friederich  Nietzsche, 
written  in  French.  I  believe  that,  setting  aside  the 
late  Karl  Knortz,  of  Tarrytown,  a  poet,  I  was  one  of 
the  first  American  correspondents  of  this  poet  and  phi 
losopher,  who  has  written  the  most  savage  attacks  against 
his  fellow  countrymen  since  Heine  and  Schopenhauer. 
His  hatred  of  the  Prussian  regime  is  openly  expressed. 
He  said  at  a  time  when  Richard  Wagner  was  giving  lip- 
service  to  the  conquerors  of  France,  that  war  had  brutal- 
ised  Germany,  with  a  consequent  deterioration  of  its 
culture;  and  remember  that  despite  his  delicate  health, 
Nietzsche  had  served  in  the  ambulance  section  during 
1870.  Yet  he  is  quoted  by  uncritical  persons  as  a  fo- 
menter  of  war,  though  he  has  defined  Prussia  as  "long- 
legs  and  obedience."  His  doctrine  of  the  superman 
should  be  taken  in  a  spiritual  sense  only.  I  saw  his 
sister  at  the  Nietzsche  Archive,  Weimar,  where  I  went 
after  data  for  my  Liszt  book  ten  years  ago.  Elizabeth 

224 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  225 

Foerster-Nietzsche  is  a  good-looking  intellectual  lady,  de 
voted  to  the  memory  of  her  brother  and  writing  much 
about  him.  She  told  me  that  his  Polish  blood  was  a 
delusion.  There  is  no  Polish  blood  in  the  family.  The 
father  was  a  God-fearing,  old-fashioned  pastor,  and  I 
recognise  in  the  son  much  of  the  evangelical  spirit.  I 
saw  the  piazza  on  which  he  looked  from  upper  Weimar 
over  the  Thuringian  landscape.  There  he  would  sit  and 
read — the  book  usually  upside  down — and  when  his  sister 
wept  he  would  say:  "Don't  cry,  little  sister.  We  are 
happy  now."  Nietzsche's  nervous  breakdown  was  caused 
in  part  by  the  contumely  of  German  critics.  He  was 
forced  to  earn  his  living  in  Switzerland,  at  Basle.  Ma 
dame  Foerster-Nietzsche  didn't  mince  words  when  tell 
ing  me  of  the  neglect  and  insults  he  had  been  subjected 
to.  A  Dane  discovered  him  to  the  world,  Georg  Brandes. 
In  his  autobiography,  Ecce  Homo,  Nietzsche  says  that  the 
Germans  are  the  Chinese  of  Europe.  His  own  culture 
was  Greek  and  French.  And  in  France  he  first  wras  wel 
comed  with  open  arms  by  the  Intellectuals.  The  French 
translation  by  M.  Albert  was  the  first  and  is  the  best. 
Poor,  persecuted,  unhappy,  misunderstood  poet  and 
philosopher,  what  a  shock  it  would  have  been  for  him  to 
have  heard  his  name  coupled  with  such  mediocre  pedants 
as  Bernhardi  or  Treitschke,  he  the  foe  of  militarism,  of 
tyranny.  He  had  never  been  persona-grata  at  Potsdam. 
Like  Goethe's  the  genius  of  Nietszche  is  universal. 

Nearly  twenty-five  years  ago  I  received  from  Tolstoy 
a  postcard  on  which  he  wrote  in  English:  "Sir,  I  do  not 
like  the  story  of  the  Devil  you  sent  me.  I  cannot  see 
a  fair  future  for  your  sinister  and  ennobled  talents.  Lief 
Nicoleivitch."  Mobled  Queen  is  good  !  cried  Polonius. 
But  why  "sinister"?  The  story  was  in  M'lle  New  York. 


226  STEEPLEJACK 

The  letters  I  have  from  Georg  Brandes  are  personal, 
and  there  is  many  a  gleam  of  humour  and  philosophy  in 
them.  He  writes  with  equal  fluency  in  four  languages, 
and  in  each  tongue  not  only  the  precise  idiom,  but  the 
essential  character  are  present.  "Alas!  the  two-thirds 
of  my  writing — all  that  regards  Scandinavian  literature, 
and  some  other  books — are  not  translated.  I  have  even 
a  volume  of  verse  to  my  account.  And  I  always  try  to 
give  my  Danish  style  a  certain  melody  .  .  .  which  is 
impossible  to  render  in  translation.  You  do  not  know 
how  happy  you  are  to  be  read  in  your  own  language, 
and  to  have  a  language  spread  over  the  earth.  My  old 
book  on  Russia  was  not  the  cause  that  barred  me  from 
Russia  in  1913.  I  have  lectured  in  Russia  many  times 
since  I  wrote  it  in  1888.  But  the  Minister  of  the  In 
terior  feared  the  enthusiasm  of  the  young  students  in 
Helsingfors.  ...  I  have  made  many  attempts  to  help 
the  poor  oppressed  Jews  in  Russia,  Poland,  Finland,  but 
I  have  always  found  rich  Jews  in  my  way;  they  own  the 
newspapers,  are  in  business  relations  with  the  oppress 
ing  government,  and  print  nothing  that  would  prove  dis 
agreeable  to  it."  This  was  written  in  English  from 
Copenhagen,  dated  July  14,  1914.  Since  the  war  Brandes 
has  had  one  thought  after  his  own  land — France.  His 
hatred  of  Russia,  like  ZangwilFs,  is  easily  comprehended. 
In  despair,  he  wrote  me,  he  took  up  his  big  book  on 
Goethe,  begun  twenty-six  years  ago,  and  as  we  know, 
had  the  courage  to  finish  it.  In  1909,  after  the  publica 
tion  of  my  Egoists,  he  wrote  from  Copenhagen  congratu 
lating  me,  though  he  objected  to  the  inclusion  of  the 
name  of  Anatole  France.  Yet  the  gentle  Anatole  is  an 
individualist  notwithstanding  his  socialistic  tendencies; 
the  general  tone  of  his  writings  gave  me  that  impression, 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  227 

For  Barres,  Georg  Brandes  holds  no  brief  of  admiration. 
He  disliked  his  Dreyfus  activities,  naturally,  but  how 
long  ago  that  seems.  He  speaks  with  extreme  cordiality 
of  our  former  Minister  at  Copenhagen,  Maurice  Egan, 
an  old  friend  of  mine  and  a  Philadelphian  born. 

I  never  saw  George  Moore  till  1901,  and  then  at  Bai- 
reuth.  Mr.  Moore,  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  belongs  to 
the  old  Wagnerian  guard.  His  Evelyn  Innes  is  the  best 
novel  about  operatic  singers  that  I  know.  The  August 
afternoon  I  spoke  with  this  remarkable  Irishman  he 
wasn't  aware  that  I  wrote  about  music.  My  name,  usu 
ally  mispronounced  (Ah !  the  delightful  little  Amy  Hop- 
pin,  who  in  1875  translated  my  long  booming  name  into 
French  as  "M.  Mielcoeur" — literally  Honey-Heart)  had 
not  been  clear,  and  when  he  later  wrote  from  Dublin  he 
spoke  of  my  Chopin,  and  regretted  that  he  hadn't  known 
it  at  the  time.  In  a  letter  also  from  Dublin,  dated  April 
2,  1904,  Mr.  Moore  wrote:  "In  The  Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man  I  give  a  description  of  a  servant-girl  in  a 
lodging-house,  but  I  did  not  think  of  her  at  the  time  as  a 
heroine  of  a  novel.  It  was  some  years  after  that  I  con 
ceived  the  idea.  I  was  walking  down  the  Strand  reading 
a  newspaper.  It  contained  an  article  on  servants,  and  in 
the  article  the  following  sentence  occurred:  'We  often 
speak  of  the  trouble  servants  give  us,  but  do  we  ever 
think  of  the  trouble  we  give  servants?'  The  sentence 
was  illuminating.  'Of  course,'  I  said,  'we  give  servants 
a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  wonder  if  a  novel  could  be 
written  about  a  servant.  A  lady  in  love  with  her  foot 
man?'  'No/  I  said,  'that  is  very  common,  very  obvious. 
A  cook  has  a  trade  to  learn;  some  one  who  learns  a  trade 
— a  cook-maid.  Now  what  could  happen  to  her? 
Sooner  or  later  she  would  be  seduced;  she  would  have  a 


228  STEEPLEJACK 

child;  she  would  be  sent  away.  If  she  did  not  kill  the 
child,  she  would  have  to  bring  it  up  on  her  wages.  Her 
wages  would  vary  from  fourteen  to  sixteen  pounds  a  year; 
on  fourteen  she  could  not  rear  her  child,  on  sixteen  she 
could.  A  human  being's  life  dependent  on  two  pounds 
a  year.  These  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  in 
the  space  of  fifty  or  sixty  yards,  while  walking  from 
Surrey  Street  to  the  Temple.  And  the  writing  of  the 
book  is  as  unlike  Goncourt  as  anything  could  be.' '  I  had 
written  in  Overtones  that,  no  doubt,  in  a  general  way, 
Germinie  Lacerteux  suggested  Esther  Waters;  but  Mr. 
Moore  gave  the  genesis  of  that  very  human  story  in  his 
letter.  He  continued: 

"I  admit  I  was  influenced  by  Zola  in  the  writings  of 
my  three  first  books,  A  Modern  Lover,  A  Mummer's 
Wife,  and  A  Drama  in  Muslin.  But  Evelyn  Innes  was 
not  suggested  by  Huysmans's  book;  it  was  conceived  and 
planned  before  Huysmans's  book  was  printed.  Mary 
Robertson,  the  poetess"  (Mr.  Moore  means  A.  Mary  F. 
Robinson,  the  widow  of  Professor  James  Darmesteter, 
and  later  the  wife  of  Professor  Duclaux),  "told  me  of 
some  little  French  actress  who  had  scruples  of  conscience 
about  her  lovers  and  went  into  a  convent,  but  she  could 
not  remain  there  because  the  nuns  were  so  childish;  she 
was  three  and  twenty  and  most  of  the  nuns  were  sixty, 
but  they  seemed  to  her  like  children.  'What  a  wonder 
ful  subject  for  a  novel,'  I  said.  'I  must  write  that.'  I 
made  the  actress  a  singer,  she  couldn't  act  in  a  convent 
— and  as  I  was  under  the  spell  of  Wagner  (I  heard  the 
story  in  Paris  on  my  return  from  Bayreuth)  I  made  her 
a  Wagner  singer.  Huysmans  writes  of  the  convent  from 
the  outside,  I  write  of  the  nuns  from  the  inside.  There 
fe  no  faintest  resemblance  between  me  and  Huysmans. 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  229 

I  have  a  word  to  say  about  the  paragraph  at  the  bottom 
of  the  page  in  which  you  say,  '  From  this  the  reader  will 
be  able  to  judge  of  Mr.  Moore's  knowledge  of  music/ 
My  knowledge  of  music  is  the  very  slightest,  but  it  was 
sufficient  to  save  me  from  the  mistake  which  you  thought 
I  fell  into.  When  I  wrote,  'The  last  composer  who  had 
distinguished  between  A  sharp  and  B  flat/  perhaps  I 
should  have  written,  'The  first  composer  who  ceased  to 
distinguish  between  the  two  notes,  and  tuned  his  instru 
ment  by  semi-tones  and  wrote  forty-eight  Preludes  and 
Fugues/  My  meaning  would  have  been  clearer,  and  I 
remember  when  I  saw  the  words  on  the  proof  I  thought 
of  altering  them,  and  I'm  sorry  I  did  not,  as  you  misread 
them.  ...  I  have  just  returned  from  London;  I  went 
over  to  hear  the  Elgar  Festival,  but  was  so  much  bored 
by  'Gerontius*  that  I  did  not  go  to  hear  'The  Apostles/ 
He  seems  to  me  quite  a  commonplace  writer.  Some 
excitable  ladies  leaned  over  to  ask  me  what  I  thought  of 
the  music,  during  the  interval,  and  I  said:  'Holy  water  in 
a  German  beer  barrel." 

That's  a  capital  criticism.  In  the  first  edition  of 
Evelyn  Innes  he  made  another  witty  epigram  when  he 
called  Parsifal  a  "stuffed  Christ."  Who  dare  say  that 
Mr.  Moore  is  not  a  humourist?  Not  "the  funny  man  in  a 
boarding-house,"  which  he  said  was  Bernard  Shaw,  but  a 
humourist  whose  humour  permeates  his  writings  through 
out.  As  to  the  convent  scenes  in  Sister  Teresa,  Pearl 
Richards  Craigie,  "John  Oliver  Hobbes,"  told  me  in 
New  York  that  she  had  supplied  Mr.  Moore  with  "local 
colour."  She  wrote  a  convent  novel.  I've  forgotten  its 
title,  but  I  remember  "Sister  Teresa,"  which  is  a  case  of 
^fiction  being  stranger  than  truth.  A  human  ass,  whose 


230  STEEPLEJACK 

tribe  grows  no  less,  said  to  me  many  years  ago  that  the 
reason  he  didn't  like  Dickens  was  because  of  the  novelist's 
predilection  for  low  company.  And  someone,  it  must 
have  been  a  college  professor — that  Eternal  Sophomore — 
wrote  long  ago  that  George  Moore  preferred  low 
company;  witness  Esther  Waters,  A  Mummer's  Wife, 
Mike  Fletcher — by  the  way,  his  most  virile,  original  per 
formance.  I  much  prefer  Mike  to  De  Maupassant's  Bel 
Ami.  Now  what  sort  of  a  mummy  mind  has  such  a 
critic !  I  can  quite  understand  people  not  liking  George 
Moore.  With  Baudelaire,  his  books  are  a  touchstone 
for  imbeciles.  No  man  of  his  time  in  or  out  of  England 
has  written  with  such  imaginative  sympathy  in  his  fic 
tion,  or  with  such  critical  insight.  His  versatility  is  re 
markable,  his  culture  sound.  And  what  an  artistic 
writer.  Vance  Thompson  has  spoken  of  college  profes 
sors  with  dandruff  on  their  coat  collars.  The  one  I 
allude  to — and  I've  forgotten  his  name  and  habitat — 
may  sport  an  immaculate  coat,  but  the  dandruff  is  inside 
his  skull.  John  Quinn  wittily  calls  them  professors  of 
Comparatively  Literature. 

In  1906  (October  26)  Mr.  Moore  wrote  from  Dublin: 
"You  say  that  Ibsen's  technique  is  entirely  French. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  disagree  with  you  on  this  point? 
No  writer  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  invented  a 
technique  so  original  as  Ibsen's.  It  seems  to  me  to  have 
fallen  from  the  moon.  First  quality :  the  omission  of  any 
statement  regarding  his  subject-matter;  every  other 
dramatist  states  his  subject  in  the  first  act,  Ibsen  never, 
in  any  of  the  important  plays.  Second  quality :  his  man 
ner  of  telling  a  story  backwards.  Rosmersholm  is  all 
told  backwards,  and  the  difficulty  of  this  form  is  enor 
mous.  I  experienced  it  in  the  first  fifty  pages  of  The  Lake; 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  231 

to  write  fifty  pages  in  the  past  participle  is  no  easy  task, 
and  Ibsen  did  that  in  dialogue  without  anybody  perceiv 
ing  that  the  characters  were  asking  and  answering  ques 


tions." 


I  suppose  I  had  said  something  about  Ibsen's  debt  to 
Scribe  in  Iconoclasts;  and  he  did  owe  a  lot  on  the 
purely  technical  side.  As  stage-manager  at  Christiania 
or  Bergen  he  adapted  many  plays  from  the  French  reper 
toire,  Scribe's  in  particular.  Scribe  is  a  wonderful  tech 
nician,  despite  the  emptiness  of  his  "ideas."  From  him 
you  may  learn  the  playwright's  trade.  But  Ibsen  bene 
fited  from  many  sources,  Scribe  and  Dumas  fils  among  the 
rest.  The  Greek  dramatists  have  written  plays  back 
wards.  There  is  no  new  thing  behind  the  footlights. 
Ibsen  is  like  a  clear  still  pool  of  icy  water  in  the  ultimate 
Scandinavian  pine  forests;  a  pool  mirroring  the  sky  and 
stars,  and  the  stately  shapes  of  tree;  also  the  shapes  of 
the  men  who  go  to  his  waters  as  on  a  secret  errand  to 
dip  their  little  pails  therein,  and  later  assert  that  they 
had  drawn  from  their  own  private  artesian  wells.  Oh ! 
St.  Bernard  of  Cork,  not  Clairvaux ! 

Like  Brandes,  Mr.  Moore  is  not  an  admirer  of  Maurice 
Barres.  He  writes:  "Barres  is  not  a  great  favourite  of 
mine.  I  have  always  found  him  very  antipathetic,  and 
his  literature  always  seemed  to  me  ineffectual;  a  well  out 
of  which  a  dry  bucket  is  always  coming  up,  a  clock  that 
never  strikes  the  hour."  That  I  do  not  agree  with  this 
damning  dictum  is  known  to  readers  of  Egoists.  Another 
time  he  writes:  "It  is  extraordinary  how  interesting  you 
Americans  make  your  writing;  you  never  produce  the 
stodgy  mess  that  Englishmen  do;  they  write  reviews  that 
interest  nobody."  Mr.  Moore  doesn't  know  that  over 
here  we  smoke  the  opium  of  optimism.  He  is  an  avowed 


232  STEEPLEJACK 


admirer  of  Edgar  Saltus,  telling  an  interviewer  that  Poe, 
Walt  Whitman,  and  Edgar  Saltus  were  our  best  writers. 
Walt's  superiority,  he  maintains,  is  because  he  writes 
with  his  whole  body,  not  alone  with  the  head.  (I  am 
quoting  from  memory.)  There  are  some  of  us  who  be 
lieve  that  W.  W.  never  used  his  head  at  all;  only  his 
body  from  the  waist  down.  In  1909,  I  told  Mr.  Moore 
that  I  was  contemplating  a  monograph  on  Franz  Liszt. 
The  news  filled  him  with  enthusiasm:  "You  know  that 
I  am  such  an  egoist,  such  a  dog  in  the  manger,  that  I 
envy  you  that  subject,  though,  of  course,  I  could  not 
write  it  myself.  To  write  a  life  of  Liszt  must  be  a  charm 
ing  thing  to  do;  much  better  than  writing  a  life  of  Wagner. 
Oh,  much !  He  was  so  many-sided,  so  quaint  a  person 
ality — his  mistresses,  and  his  music  and  his  friendship 
with  Wagner,  and  a  hundred  other  little  turns  in  his 
character.  It  is  a  book  I  hope  you  will  spend  a  good  deal 
of  time  upon;  not  rewriting  it  as  I  write  my  books,  for 
that  is  madness.  Never  do  that!"  No,  I  never  re 
write  my  books.  The  "dog  returns  to  his  vomit"  when 
an  author  reads  his  proof.  That  is  bad  enough.  But  I 
didn't  enjoy  writing  my  Liszt.  The  subject  required 
too  much  research,  and  research  requires  time,  and  time 
is  money;  ergo:  I  had  to  hurry  the  book  through  in  a 
year.  Moore  is  a  rich  man,  and  he  has  always  had 
leisure,  which,  I  am  happy  to  say,  he  never  wasted. 
Poor  Dostoievsky,  the  profoundest  of  the  Russian  novel 
ists,  and  that  means  the  profoundest  of  all,  Balzac  ex- 
cepted,  was  harassed  by  poverty  and  could  not  write  his 
powerful  fiction  in  the  artistic  way  he  wished.  It  was  a 
tragedy  in  the  life  of  a  tragic  soul.  Tolstoy  and  Tur- 
genev  were  rich.  Flaubert  till  he  was  fifty  had  ample 
means,  and  he  had  not  wife  or  children.  I  repeat  it 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  233 

needs  a  competency  to  write  books.  My  Liszt  was  not 
what  I  had  wished  for.  I  dislike  it — but  then  I  dislike 
all  my  books;  "detritus  of  me,"  as  Whitman  yawps. 
None  the  less  it  is  a  handy  volume  of  reference.  Before 
I  finished  it  the  subject  had  ceased  to  interest  me.  Liszt 
and  the  ladies !  There  Mr.  Moore  was  clairvoyant. 
It  is  the  major  motive  in  the  Abbe's  life,  crowded  with 
incident  and  the  tragedy  of  being  a  transitional  com 
poser.  Moore  would  have  handled  the  woman  side  of 
Liszt  better  than  I. 

Mr.  Moore  was  excited  when  I  told  him  of  a  rumour 
that  The  Lake  was  to  be  dramatised.  Why  not?  he 
asked,  and  he  wrote  me  a  long  letter  from  London- 
dateless,  only  "105  Marylebone  Road" —which  is  prac 
tically  a  scenario  of  the  novel.  It  is  too  lengthy  to 
transcribe  now.  He  once  wrote  a  full-fledged  comedy, 
and  a  very  readable  one,  which  I  fetched  to  Daniel 
Frohman.  Nothing  came  of  it.  When  I  last  saw  this 
Irishman  of  genius  he  didn't  look  his  age  by  ten  years. 
He  was  born  in  1857.  The  Marquise  di  Lanza — who 
was  born  Clara  Hammond,  and  daughter  of  Surgeon- 
General  Hammond — wrote  me  that  George  Moore  was 
born  in  1852.  He  told  her  in  1889  that  he  was  then 
thirty-seven.  Madame  Lanza  still  has  the  letter.  Oscar 
Wilde  told  her  on  his  visit  to  America  that  he  was  twenty- 
six.  He  was  really  twenty-nine.  Not  that  it  matters. 
A  man  is  as  old  as  he  writes — I  mean  a  writing  man. 
And  I've  noticed  that  men  are  as  vain  and  "tetchy"  as 
women  on  the  subject  of  their  age.  Why  not?  Cock-a- 
doodle-doo !  crows  the  chanticleer  at  dawn. 

I  have  related  my  impressions  of  Joseph  Conrad  the 
man:  His  letters  resemble  him;  our  letters  usually  do  re- 


234  STEEPLEJACK 


semble  us.  As  is  the  case  with  the  majority  of  great 
writers,  Mr.  Conrad  is  the  most  human  of  humans.  His 
unfailing  kindness,  and  politeness  in  recognising  other 
men's  work  is  very  comforting  to  writers  who  are  swarm 
ing  around  the  base  of  his  mountain.  I  had  compared 
him  with  Flaubert,  and  he  wrote  me  (1909)  that  "when 
you  overwhelm  me  with  the  mantle  of  Flaubert,  it  is  an 
ominous  garment  to  put  on  a  man's  shoulders.  Yet 
there  is  one  point  in  which  I  resemble  that  great  man; 
it  is  in  the  desperate  heart-breaking  toil  and  effort  of  the 
writing;  the  days  of  wrestling  as  with  a  dumb  devil  for 
every  line  of  my  creation.  .  .  .  Mais  laissons  cela  !  .  .  . 
I  must  go  back  to  my  MS.  on  a  page  (just  like  this  one) 
bearing  the  No.  890  of  the  novel  I  have  been  at  for  the 
last  sixteen  months.  And  the  end  is  not  yet !  And 
that  end  also  does  not  bear  thinking  about."  I  believe 
that  the  novel  he  mentions  is  Chance.  In  another  letter 
he  speaks  of  Flaubert.  It  was  written  from  Kent  the 
same  year,  1909:  "I,  too,  began  my  communion  with 
Flaubert  by  Salammbo.  I  might  have  seen  him — but 
in  1879  I  was  somewhere  at  sea,  au  diable  boulli,  Kerguelen 
Land,  I  think,  or  thereabouts.  It  was  another  life  I  re 
member  with  much  tenderness,  as  a  transmigrated  soul 
might  be  supposed  by  a  miracle  to  remember  its  previous 
envelope."  What  is  more  fascinating  than  a  peep  into 
the  laboratory  of  a  great  artist's  mind!  Involuntarily 
you  exclaim:  "O  rare  Joseph  Conrad,  who  has  wisely 
written  that  'Imagination,  not  invention,  is  the  supreme 
master  of  art  as  of  life  ! ' ' 

While  I  was  speaking  of  Nietzsche,  I  should  have  quoted 
a  striking  remark  made  by  Edith  Wharton  in  a  letter 
from  Paris  some  years  ago  (1909).  She  had  read  his  auto 
biography  Ecce  Homo,  and  she  found  that  it  held  more 


AUTOGRAPH  LETTERS  235 

of  the  philosopher  than  any  of  his  other  works,  and  she 
added:  "The  farther  I  go  the  more  I  feel  that  Goethe 
contained  most  of  him  (Nietzsche)  and  most  of  every 
thing  else!  He  was  the  most  Super-est  of  them  all." 
Mrs.  Wharton  could  have  joined  to  Goethe's  name  that 
of  Dostoievsky.  I  have  been  rereading  The  Brothers 
Karamazov  and  The  Possessed  (Englished  by  Constance 
Garnett;  Besi  is  the  Russian  title  of  The  Possessed.  It 
means,  aptly  enough,  Devils)  and  my  opinion  is  strength 
ened  that  from  the  great  Russian  novelist,  Nietzsche  ab 
sorbed  much  of  his  mysticism;  the  Eternal  Return,  the 
Superman.  In  these  books,  also^f  he  Idiot,  may  be  found 
some  of  the  most  significant  utterances  of  the  German 
philosopher — the  most  un-German  thinker  of  his  epoch. 
In  all  modern  literature,  dating  from  Dante — and  I 
called  Dostoievsky  the  Dante  of  the  North  in  an  essay  to 
be  found  in  Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks — there  is  no  such 
grandiose  vision  as  the  story  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor  in 
The  Brothers  Karamazov. 

When  I  spoke  of  my  Zoo  and  its  queer  inmates,  I  was 
probably  thinking  of  what  Paul  Elmer  More  wrote  in 
1915:  "How  in  the  name  of  heaven  do  you  have  the  will 
power  to  read  all  those  eccentrics  and  maniacs  whom  you 
seem  to  know  by  heart?  A  week  of  them  would  kill  me 
with  ennui.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  that  really  lasts 
and  maintains  its  interest  but  the  sane  and  the  reticent." 
Words  of  wisdom.  But  sane  genius  also  has  its  crazy 
wards,  its  padded  cells:  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Goethe;  besides,  my  "maniacs"  are  a  pretty  sane  lot. 
Some  drank.  Some  murdered  sleep,  yet  Chopin,  Stend 
hal,  Anatole  France,  Richard  Strauss,  Pater,  Wagner, 
Baudelaire,  Manet,  Brahms — the  list  is  long  and  far  from 
insane,  for  I  take  it  neither  Poe  nor  Chopin  were  quite 


236  STEEPLEJACK 

mad.  Drugs  and  alcohol  did  for  Poe.  Mad,  naked 
William  Blake  was  rather  peculiar,  to  say  the  least. 
Yet  a  god-intoxicated  man.  No,  I  don't  hold  with  the 
eminent  critic  that  is  Mr.  Moore,  and  I  yield  to  no  one 
in  my  admiration  of  Wordsworth,  of  the  Lake  School,  of 
the  placid  and  delightful  eighteenth-century  essayists. 
A  chacun  son  poison  ! 

Richard  Mansfield  I  never  personally  met,  but  I  wrote 
about  him  critically  from  his  "Prince  Karl"  days  on. 
I  have  several  letters  from  him,  undated,  but  written  dur 
ing  the  stress  of  the  "  Peer  Gynt "  production.  He  invited 
me  to  dine  at  his  home,  No.  316  Riverside  Drive,  and 
when  I  gave  my  reason  for  refusing  his  hospitality — also 
my  regret — he  fairly  exploded.  A  European  born  and 
European  in  culture,  he  couldn't  understand  my  attitude. 
In  London  and  Paris  there  are  clubs  where  actors,  artists, 
writers,  and  critics  meet  and  mingle,  and  no  harm  comes 
of  it,  indeed,  good  results.  But  in  New  York  the  dra 
matic  critic  is  taboo.  If  he  dines  with  an  actor,  or  an 
actor  takes  luncheon  with  him,  then  the  alarm-bells  are 
rung  all  over  town.  "Mansfield  has  bought  up  Mr.  X." 
I  didn't  say  this  in  my  letter,  but  the  sensitive  Mansfield 
understood.  He  had  wanted  to  talk  over  "Peer  Gynt" 
with  me,  because  he  had  read  what  I  wrote  of  Ibsen's 
tragi-comedy.  They  were  then  rehearsing  at  the  New 
York  Theatre  and  Will  McConnell  had  instructions  to 
admit  me.  I  didn't  go.  I  now  regret  it.  The  produc 
tion  qua  production  was  picturesque,  but  the  spirit  of 
Ibsen  missing.  Mansfield  was  nearing  the  close  of  a  bril 
liant  career.  He  was  exhausted  by  work.  He  had  few 
intimate  friends,  I  mean  genuine  friends,  who  could  advise 
him.  Edward  A.  Dithmar  was  one,  but  to  him  Ibsen 
was  repugnant.  He  was  sincere  in  this  his  dislike  and  I 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  237 

respected  his  sincerity.  Yet,  what  an  Ibsen  interpreter 
Richard  Mansfield  might  have  been.  What  an  Oswald, 
what  a  Rosmersholm.  When  Orlenev,  an  extraordinary 
Russian  actor,  played  here  with  Alia  Nazimova,  we  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  possibilities  of  the  Master-Builder. 
Mansfield  was  made  for  the  part,  and  for  many  other 
modern  roles.  But  fate  willed  otherwise,  and  he  went 
on  year  after  year,  wasting  his  dramatic  powers  in  such 
tawdry  stuff  as  "Parisian  Romance,"  "Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde"-— crude  melodrama — and  the  silly  "Prince 
Karl."  For  Shakespeare,  neither  by  temperament  nor 
training,  was  he  suited.  In  "Rodion  the  Student," 
Charles  Henry  Meltzer's  admirable  adaptation  of  Dos 
toievsky's  The  Crime  and  the  Punishment,  Mansfield 
was  in  his  element.  But  to  his  letter: 

"Here  is  another  grudge  I  have  to  record  against  the 
unfortunate  choice  of  a  profession  that  debars  me  from 
the  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  brilliant  men.  .  .  . 
In  this  city,  in  this  country,  one  is  forced  to  eat  one's 
own  heart — Garrick  and  the  rest  of  them  had  better  luck 
— they  had  the  stimulus  of  fine  minds,  their  opinions, 
their  encouragement.  .  .  .  Still,  I  feel  that  we  could 
have  discussed  "Peer  Gynt,"  and  I  could  have  got  from 
you  a  lot  of  points  that  I  may  miss — even  at  a  sacrifice 
to  yourself  and  of  yourself.  ...  I  can't  begin  to  enu 
merate  the  essentials.  I  should  have  to  talk  it  act  by  act, 
scene  by  scene,  the  necessary  cuts,  my  appearance  (my 
looks),  et  cetera.  Scribners  should  have  published  our 
(acting)  cut  edition.  .  .  .  Chicago  will  probably  d — n 
it,  the  Associated  Press  will  do  the  rest.  ...  As  to 
Anitra"  (a  character  in  the  play),  "being  the  Eternal- 
Womanly,  I  have  my  doubts.  We  have  Solveig — the 
one  is  no  more  eternal  than  the  other,  or  the  other  than 


238  STEEPLEJACK 

the  one  on  earth;  if  it  had  not  been  for  Solveig,  I  should 
not  have  undertaken  to  do  Peer,  but,  of  course,  the 
much  esteemed  author  I  know  only  meant  that  the 
Eternal- Womanly,  all  of  them,  write  these  days.  I 
shall  not  allow  the  'dread  passenger'  to  refer  to  'midmost 
of  Act  V — because  that  is  one  of  Ibsen's  mistakes  in 
good  taste.  It  is  hard  enough  to  drag  the  people  off 
the  earth  without  knocking  them  back  to  it  of  a  sudden 
and  reminding  them  that  after  all  we  are  in  a  theatre 
and  only  actor-folk.  But  Lord,  I  could  write  on  forever. 
Throw  it  in  your  waste-basket  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
Don't  write  about  it  and  me,  but  come  and  talk  to  me; 
the  public  would  be  the  loser,  but  I  shall  be  the  gainer 
and  perhaps  in  the  end  the  public  too."  This  letter 
shows  what  Mansfield's  friends  knew — that  the  actor 
was  not  only  a  charming  man  but  amenable  to  reason. 
He  was  often  caricatured  by  irresponsible  writers.  The 
biography  by  Paul  Wilstach  demonstrates  that.  It  was 
my  loss,  not  meeting  the  gifted  and  musical  man.  And 
what  a  lot  he  did  for  Shaw,  for  he  literally  gave  "Arms 
and  the  Man"  and  "The  Devil's  Disciple"  their  first 
artistic  production  in  America.  Mr.  Shaw  was  charac 
teristically  "grateful,"  judging  from  the  letters  that 
passed  between  actor  and  author.  But  could  "Peer 
Gynt"  have  been  possible  here?  I  saw  it  in  its  entirety 
somewhere  in  Europe,  and  it  took  two  nights  to  play  it. 

A  crumbling  letter  written  in  London  (July  8,  1895) 
is  signed  Kyrle  Bellew,  and  what  memories  that  name 
evokes.  Mr.  Meltzer  had  made  an  adaptation  of  the 
Dumas  Collier  de  la  Reine,  in  which  Mrs.  Potter  wore 
the  largest  hat  I  ever  saw  on  a  woman's  head.  Incident 
ally,  Bellew  speaks  of  Mrs.  Pat  Campbell.  "She  is  the 


AUTOGRAPH  LETTERS  239 

vogue,  the  real  thing  is  not  there.  She  must  be  written 
around.  It  is  the  skittishness  of  her  personality  that 
has  set  London  crazy"  (he  is  referring  to  Mrs.  Campbell's 
memorable  impersonation  of  Paula  Tanqueray  in  the 
Pinero  play;  all  said  and  done,  her  best  dramatic  assump 
tion).  "As  an  artist  she  is  impossible — as  a  producer 
of  a  certain  kind  of  suggestion  she  is  immense.  She  will 
never  be  a  great  actress.  She  is  Pat  Campbell,  and  she 
will  never  be  anyone  else.  Nethersole  has  killed  herself 
playing  'The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith'  in  London. 
She  has  challenged  reigning  favourites  and  got  hopelessly 
sat  upon,  or  ignored/'  Kyrle  Bellew  then  goes  on  to 
speak  of  Barney  Barnato  and  Albert  Beit,  who  were 
splurging  in  London  with  their  millions.  A  single  letter 
from  the  beautiful  Mary  F.  Scott-Siddons  is  dated  from 
Berlin,  February,  1896,  and  chiefly  deals  with  the  troubles 
she  was  undergoing  in  producing  an  opera  composed 
by  her  protege,  the  English  pianist  and  pupil  of  Liszt, 
Henry  Waller.  "  Fra  Francesco  "  was  its  title,  and  Arthur 
Sullivan  had  approved  of  the  music.  I  dimly  remember 
that  it  was  given  in  Germany.  But  by  far  the  most  in 
teresting  part  of  the  letter  is  the  account  of  her  Shake 
spearean  reading  before  the  Kaiser  and  Court  at  Pots 
dam.  Oddly  enough  some  selections  from  American 
humourists  best  pleased  the  HohenzoIIerns.  Other  days, 
other  ways. 

My  correspondence  with  Remy  de  Gourmont  covered 
several  decades.  It  is  chiefly  literary,  and  there  is  so 
much  in  it  about  my  books  that  my  well-known  modesty 
estops  me  from  reproducing  these  letters.  Senator  Lodge 
made  a  happy  quotation  at  the  close  of  a  certain  letter: 
"I  look  with  amazement  at  the  flood  of  books  that  I 
see  pouring  over  the  news-stands  and  counters.  It  is 


24o  STEEPLEJACK 


not  that  they  are  meretricious  or  immoral,  but  they 
seem  to  me  so  feeble  and  so  full  of  weak  sentiment.  I 
think  constantly  when  I  look  upon  them  of  Carlyle's 
phrase  that  'they  are  intended  for  immediate  use  and 
immediate  oblivion.'  Your  George  Sand"  (in  Unicorns) 
"brought  back  distant  memories.  She  was  still  a  con 
spicuous  figure,  still  writing  when  I  was  a  boy  and  a  young 
man.  She  had  a  great  reputation  then.  I  remember 
that  I  tried  to  read  her  books  and  they  bored  me  .  .  . 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  years  in  their  movement  had 
justified  my  original  attitude.  On  the  other  hand  she 
has,  as  you  say,  immense  interest  as  a  personality." 
Of  the  so-called,  and  still-unborn  "Great  American 
Novel,"  William  Dean  Howells  wrote:  "We  all  have  to 
have  our  shy  at  that  monstrous  misconception,  that 
grotesque  impossibility,  and  I  like  to  see  you  bang  it 
about.  But  we  shall  never  bang  it  out  of  the  heads  that 
have  so  little  in  them."  One  of  my  treasured  letters  is 
dated  May  8,  1902,  and  signed  Frank  Norris.  Well  I 
remember  his  earnestness  when  he  asserted  that  poor  or 
mediocre  books  were  for  the  mass  of  the  people  better 
than  none  at  all.  "Only  get  them  to  read — anything," 
was  his  plea.  Of  my  Melomaniacs  he  wrote  some  words 
that  pleased  me,  for  Norris  was  a  craftsman:  "You  cer 
tainly  have  attained  what  has  always  seemed  to  me  the 
most  difficult  of  all  achievements.  I  mean  originality 
without  grotesqueness."  I  was  tickled  to  death  over 
that.  You  see,  even  professional  critics  have  feelings. 

It  was  as  long  ago  as  1893  that  I  began  corresponding 
with  Israel  Zangwill,  for  whose  work  I  have  genuine  es 
teem.  When  he  visited  the  United  States  in  1898,  I 
met  him  in  New  York.  I  had  imitated  him  in  such 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  241 

stories  as  The  Shofar  Blew  at  Sunset,  and  in  The 
Cardinal's  Fiddle,  and  he  was  duly  amused.  Like 
most  Englishmen,  he  can't  understand  that  I  am  tired 
of  Whitmania,  probably,  as  Lawrence  Gilman  sug 
gested,  because  I  had  suffered  from  a  bad  attack  in  my 
youth  and  had  recovered.  What  I  chiefly  resent  is  the 
implication  that  Whitman  voices  our  national  feeling,  or 
even  pictures  us  as  we  are.  He  does  neither.  We  are 
not  Camerados,  closely  knit,  as  the  war  has  made  us. 
Mr.  Zangwill  finds  in  him  the  "real  insight  of  a  seer." 
Granted.  And  still  one  swallow  doesn't  make  a  summer. 
"These  States,"  as  John  Jay  Chapman  pointed  out 
years  ago,  are  not  peopled  by  Walt  Whitman  characters. 
The  Lord  forbid!  Max  Nordau,  for  example,  doesn't 
agree  with  Mr.  Zangwill  in  his  estimate  of  Walt,  calling 
him  a  rotten  sensualist,  as  may  be  noted  in  the  Calamus 
section  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  of  patriotic  yawps  he 
has  this  to  say:  "In  his  patriotic  poems,  Whitman  is  a 
sycophant  of  the  corrupt  American  vote-buying,  official- 
bribing,  power-abusing,  dollar-democracy,  and  a  cringer 
to  the  most  arrogant  Yankee  conceit."  (Degeneration, 
English  translation,  page  23 1 .)  How  Max  admires  us  ! 
John  LaFarge,  the  critic,  interested  me  more  than 
John  LaFarge,  the  painter.  He  is  called  an  eclectic, 
which  simply  means  an  artist  who  lacks  originality.  His 
pictures  never  attracted  me,  not  even  the  South  Sea 
examples.  Paul  Gauguin,  not  LaFarge,  is  my  man  for 
exotic  art.  But  an  extraordinary  raconteur  was  the 
American  according  to  Royal  Cortissoz.  I  never  met 
him,  although  I  went  to  his  Tenth  Street  studio  to  see 
his  stained  glass,  which  I  liked.  I  have  a  stack  of  letters 
from  him.  They  are  of  equal  interest.  I  quote  a  few 
sente  ices  showing  the  curiosity  of  the  thinker  concern- 


242  STEEPLEJACK 

ing  art  and  life.  In  1907  he  writes:  "I  want  to  tell  you 
what  always  interests  me,  because  I  cannot  tell  myself 
how  it  is  done — though  it  is  very  well  known,  that  is, 
how  a  painter  can  carry  out  the  enormous  mass  of  detail 
of  a  painting  from  Nature,  in  the  few  minutes  that  make 
an  hour,  or  two  or  three  hours.  Several  of  the  pictures 
you  mention — the  water  colours  in  the  South  Seas,  are 
only  a  couple  of  hours'  work,  and  the  big  one,  which  you 
may  remember,  is  an  afternoon's  work.  .  .  .  You  your 
self,  if  you  ever  have  the  chance,  ought  to  go  down  and 
live  in  those  wonders  of  light  and  air.  But  what  I  wished 
to  write  to  you  about  was  your  paper  on  the  etchings  of 
Rembrandt  and  Whistler"  (it  appeared  in  The  Sun). 
"What  you  have  said  is,  to  my  mind,  very  much  needed. 
Some  excellent  people  confuse  the  limit  of  things,  and 
in  their  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Whistler,  put  him 
where  it  is  unjust  to  be.  ...  I  have  never  been  exactly 
a  Stendhalist"  (I  had  quoted  Stendhal),  "but  I  remem 
ber  Henry  James,  who,  himself,  of  course,  admired  him 
more  or  less,  was  interesting  in  his  expression  of  dislike 
when  we  were  in  Italy  together.  In  Paris  some  fifty 
odd  years  ago,  I  met  people  who  had  known  Stendhal 
(Beyle).  You  may  remember  that  my  grand-uncle, 
Paul  de  Saint- Victor,  was  a  successful  rival  in  some  one 
of  the  love  affairs  of  your  man.  .  .  ."  John  LaFarge 
was  one  of  the  first  American  artists  who  "went  in  for'* 
the  Japanese,  for  Blake,  for  Goya.  His  mural  composi 
tions  are  pasticcios. 

W.  B.  Yeats  wrote  me  in  1903  that  John  Quinn  had 
told  him  I  wrote  the  article  in  The  Sun  on  the  Irish 
movement  in  two  hours;  which  was  true.  Yeats  adds: 
"That  seems  to  me  a  wonderful  feat,  for  it  is  precisely 
what  journalism  is  not — detailed  and  philosophical  and 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  243 

accurate.  ...  Of  course,  my  critic  in  The  Evening  Post 
was  right  in  one  sense  in  calling  me  decadent.  We  are 
all  decadent,  our  sins  are  the  sins  of  our  forefathers. 
But  I  am  struggling  against  it,  always  trying  to  get  the 
fire  to  the  centre,  not  to  the  circumference.  I  don't 
think  this  critic  knew  that  Lionel  Johnson,  who  is  his 
type  of  classic  health,  never  got  up  till  dark  or  went  to 
bed  till  daylight,  wrote  poems  to  absinthe,  and  died, 
poor  man,  of  a  fall  he  got  when  intoxicated.  Of  course, 
this  isn't  the  same  thing  as  literary  decadence,  but  I 
imagine  it  would  have  seemed  so  to  him.  I  have  a  notion 
that  everybody  has  been  decadent  since  Shakespeare, 
and  the  reason  for  it  is  partly  a  question  of  language— 
but  that  is  too  big  a  question  for  a  letter."  Mr.  Yeats 
might  have  recommended  his  critic,  all  critics,  to  read 
the  masterly  exposition  on  the  theme  of  decadence  in 
Affirmations,  by  Havelock  Ellis.  After  the  Nordau 
humbuggery  the  word  "decadence"  was  used  as  a  club 
to  smash  an  author's  reputation.  Nowadays,  it's  a  joke 
for  Washington  Square  Bohemia. 

Paul  Hervieu  is  another  writer  with  whom  I  came  in 
contact  at  Paris.  His  dramas  are  still  in  the  repertory 
of  the  Theatre  Frangais;  "Les  Tenailles"  ("Nippers"), 
"Le  Reveil" — with  Julia  Bartet,  Bargy,  and  Paul 
Mgunet-SuIIy — the  brother  of  the  tragedian,  and  "The 
Enigma."  These  pieces  were  poorly  interpreted  in  New 
York—  "The  Awakening,"  with  Olga  Nethersole,  hardly 
a  substitute  for  Julia  Bartet,  whose  exquisite  art  is  for 
me  an  exquisite  memory.  I  spent  a  pleasant  hour  with 
M.  Hervieu  at  his  apartment  on  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de 
Boulogne  No.  23.  He  was  a  reserved  man  with  an  Eng 
lish  bearing,  which  I  set  down  to  his  fondness  for  things 


244  STEEPLEJACK 

English;  he  informed  me  that  he  spent  his  summers  on 
the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  impressed  me  as  a  man  suffering 
from  secret  chagrin;  perhaps  an  unhappy  love-affair. 
His  artistic  successes  were  numerous.  I  was  all  the  more 
surprised  when  he  advised  me  not  to  give  way  to  cyni 
cism;  irony  he  detested,  he,  the  skinner  of  souls,  whose 
surgeon's  scalpel  was  deeply  dipped  in  irony;  he,  the 
novelist,  whose  use  of  the  so-called  "cruel  terms"  was 
as  disconcerting  as  Henri  Becque's.  Doubtless  because 
of  his  abuse  of  verbal  corrosive-sublimate  he  sought  to 
restrain  younger  men  from  his  mistake.  His  letters,  a 
dozen,  are  full  of  technical  gossip  about  his  plays.  The 
tall,  slanting  handwriting  of  Alia  Nazimova  recalls  the 
time  when  she  made  her  debut  here  in  company  with 
Orlenev  at  a  little  theatre  off  the  Bowery,  East  Third  or 
Fourth  Streets.  Emma  Goldman  was  the  press-agent, 
and  called  herself  Emma  Smith,  on  account  of  her  numer 
ous  tiffs  with  the  police.  I  can  go  back  still  further  to 
the  days  when  Emma  was  a  disciple  of  Johann  Most,  the 
anarchist.  It  was  not  the  law  that  ended  Johann's  days 
but  John  Barleycorn.  He  was  a  thirsty  dreamer.  Nazi 
mova  afterwards  played  Grushenka  wonderfully  in  a 
dramatisation  of  "The  Brothers  Karamazov,"  at  the  Lex 
ington  Avenue  Theatre,  near  Forty-second  Street.  Or 
lenev  was  the  Dmitri,  a  half-crazy  drunkard  falsely  ac 
cused  of  parricide.  The  company  generally  was  excellent; 
the  intellectual  aristocracy  of  the  town  present.  Miss 
Nazimova's  career  since  then  has  been  confined  to  the 
English-speaking  stage.  But  she  was  at  her  artistic  best 
when  playing  in  Russian. 

A  note  that  I  received  from  William  M.  Laffan,  then 
proprietor  of  The  Sun  (1907),  exhibits  his  native  decision 
and  Celtic  humour.  "Yes,  sir,  I  am,  or  more  rightly, 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  245 

I  was,  an  etcher;  and  none  of  your  damned  amateurs, 
either,  I  want  you  to  understand.  Twenty -five  years  ago 
I  converted  sheets  of  otherwise  blameless  copper  into 
bread  and  butter.  I  don't  know  how  many  I  did,  but 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  the  art  of  them  was  on  a 
high  plane,  a  very  high  plane,  indeed;  a  fact  which  is 
not  necessarily  impugned  by  my  having  been  able  to  sell 
them.  There  is  nowhere,  thank  God,  a  proof  extant  (I 
think  I  possess  only  one),  so  that  I  may  say  what  I  like 
about  their  quality  and  run  no  measurable  danger. 
The  bad  proofs  that  a  man  pulls  will  always  come  home  to 
rocst;  but  I  am  the  exception  that  proves  the  rule.  I 
will  read  your  article  about  Rops  with  pleasure.  Why 
not  have  a  go  at  Meryon?  There's  provocation  for  you." 
I  did.  The  study  appeared  on  the  editorial  page  of 
The  Sun,  and  later  was  included  in  Promenades  of  an 
Impressionist.  William  Laffan  was  too  modest.  I  have 
seen  a  woodcut  of  his  representing  a  covey  of  birds, 
which  betrayed  observation  and  knowledge  of  technical 
process.  His  handwriting  is  etched.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  W.  C.  Brownell's  pen-and-ink  miniatures,  I  never 
saw  such  tiny  lettering  allied  with  such  diamond  clear 
ness.  Pearl  Mary-Teresa  Craigie,  as  she  signed  herself, 
was  not  in  private  life  like  her  masculine  pen-name, 
"John  Oliver  Hobbes."  She  was  shy,  feminine,  sympa 
thetic.  I  only  saw  her  once  and  at  the  Hotel  Nether 
lands.  She  spoke  of  her  favourite  writers,  of  George 
Moore  and  Bernard  Shaw — evidently  not  her  favourites 
—and  she  confessed  to  being  an  anti-Wagnerian.  Her 
handwriting,  too,  in  the  half-dozen  letters  I  have  saved, 
is  small  and  clear.  Another  human  being  who  made  me 
unhappy  in  her  presence  because  of  her  inquietude. 
Her  last  communication  is  dated  April  24,  1906,  and  was 


246  STEEPLEJACK 

written  at  her  home,  Steephill  Castle,  Ventnor,  Isle  of 
Wight. 

In  reading  some  of  the  letters  Havelock  Ellis  sent  me 
during  the  past  fifteen  years,  I  note  the  same  quality 
of  charm  and  wisdom  that  informs  his  published  writings. 
Now,  to  write  a  book  that  is  both  wise  and  charming 
seems  a  task  beyond  the  powers  of  most  of  our  young 
authors.  They  are  in  such  a  hurry,  tumbling  head  over 
heels  to  court  the  favours  of  the  Great  God  Success, 
that  they  give  us  hardly  the  bare  ribs  of  literature. 
Charm — isn't  it  a  lost  art?  And  haste  and  charm  are 
mutually  exclusive.  You  can't  be  charming  on  a  type 
writing  machine.  Worst  of  all,  few  miss  the  quality. 
The  reading  public  takes  its  literature  dished  up  with 
advertisements,  and  only  asks  that  the  story  be  told 
with  cinematographic  velocity.  To  concentrate  one's 
intelligence  on  a  phrase  is  inconceivable;  to  linger  over 
an  idea  or  a  prose  cadence — that  way  folly  flies.  Hurrah 
for  the  Movies  in  print !  Yet  there  are  some  serene  souls 
left,  with  brains  and  art  to  interpret  them;  a  few  who 
refuse  to  mingle  with  the  vast  mob  of  tripe-sellers  in  the 
market-place.  One  of  these  elect  is  Havelock  Ellis, 
known  as  a  psychologist,  nevertheless  a  literary  critic  of 
singular  charm  and  acuteness.  His  New  Spirit  made  a 
sensation  twenty-five  years  ago;  Affirmations  was  another 
revealing  book,  with  its  studies  of  such  disparate  per 
sonalities  as  Zola,  St.  Francis,  Casanova,  Nietzsche. 
The  note  of  catholicity  sounds  throughout  the  fluid 
prose  of  this  master's  pages.  Recall  The  Soul  of  Spain, 
the  most  sympathetic  book  on  modern  Spanish  art  and 
literature  that  I  have  read;  Velasquez  and  Goya  are  not 
overlooked.  His  Impressions  and  Comments  is  charged 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  247 

with  kindly  wisdom,  garnered  from  a  life  rich  in  experi 
ence  and  thought,  not  more  than  a  page  or  two  in  length, 
on  a  thousand-and-one  themes,  saturated  with  the  toler 
ant  Ellis  philosophy,  which  he  once  defined  as  the  diffi 
cult  art  of  holding  on  and  letting  go. 

But  I  must  brisk  up  my  tempo,  else  I'll  be  rambling 
on  till  next  summer.  A  Homeric  catalogue  of  names 
would  be  the  quickest  way  to  dispose  of  my  letters. 
There  is  a  hastily  written  scrawl  from  the  English 
painter,  Augustus  John,  whose  canvases  are  among  the 
jewels  of  the  John  Quinn  collection.  There  are  letters 
galore  from  that  witty  and  erudite  New  York  barrister 
— who  the  older  he  grows  looks  more  like  Cardinal  Man 
ning — Quinn,  the  avowed  friend  of  the  Irish  literary 
movement,  of  Synge,  and  Moore,  Yeats,  Stephens, 
James  Joyce,  Lady  Gregory,  and  also  a  friend  of  Arthur 
Symons  and  Joseph  Conrad.  He  is  not  so  ascetic  as  he 
looks;  but  a  letter-writer  born.  The  name  of  Jules 
Gaultier  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  finely  written  page.  Of  this 
brilliant  philosopher  I  wrote  years  ago;  I  even  introduced 
his  books  to  William  James,  but  the  American  thinker 
was  just  then  absorbed  in  Henri  Bergson,  and  Pragma 
tism,  and  he  never  expressed  an  opinion  of  Gaultier,  for 
me  the  superior  thinker  of  the  pair;  above  all,  one  with 
out  a  trace  of  sentimental  charlatanism.  You  can't 
say  the  same  of  Bergson,  that  weaver  of  glittering  specious 
phrases.  In  his  letter  Gaultier  deplores  the  death  of 
Remy  de  Gourmont.  That  writer  did  much  to  spread 
the  ideas  of  Jules  Gaultier.  As  I  have  told  you,  my 
friendship  with  Maurice  Maeterlinck  dates  back  to  1903. 
His  letters  are  personal.  I  have  only  one  letter  from 
James  Joyce,  a  man  of  genius.  His  play,  "Exiles," 
has  the  same  poignant  quality  we  find  in  "The  Master 


248  STEEPLEJACK 

Builder,"  or  in  some  of  Strindberg's  one-act  dramas. 
The  same  intensity,  oppressiveness,  and  lurking  tragic 
terror.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  Strindberg's  "Credi 
tors";  but  Joyce  is  individual  and  Celtic  to  the  back 
bone.  A  bitter  brew,  but  stimulating  is  his  play. 
From  the  master,  Paul  Bourget,  I  had  a  letter  in  1909 
saying  pleasant  things  about  my  study  of  Stendhal,  in 
Egoists.  M.  Bourget  it  was  who  revived  the  cult  of 
Stendhal  in  the  early  eighties  of  the  past  century,  and  so 
timed  that  he  fulfilled  the  great  writer's  prediction  that  he 
would  be  understood  about  1880.  Bourget  is  not  much 
read  by  the  present  generation  in  America,  though  he  was 
popular  when  The  Disciple  and  Cruel  Enigma  were  trans 
lated.  Why  hasn't  someone  translated  his  Duchesse 
Bleu,  one  of  his  most  charming  fictions? 

Bernard  Berenson,  art  critic,  Jean  de  Reszke,  Jules 
Lefebvre,  Isidor  Phillipp,  Paul  Adam — who  was  called 
by  De  Gourmont  "a  magnificent  spectacle,"  and  a  mag 
nificent  writer  he  is — Auguste  Rodin,  glorious  sculptor; 
Ignacio  Zuloaga,  Spanish  painter,  the  biggest  since  the 
death  of  Goya;  a  post-card  signed  Strindberg — but  not 
addressed  to  me — Yves  Guyot,  French  economist;  Florian 
Parmentier,  critic;  a  cordial  greeting  from  W.  W.  Mesdag, 
the  Dutch  marine  artist,  whose  collection  of  French  art 
at  The  Hague  is  one  of  the  many  attractions  in  that 
lovely,  tranquil  city;  of  his  wife,  also  a  painter,  I  have  a 
small  water-colour;  Fourcaud,  Viardot,  Widor,  the  or 
ganist  of  St.  Sulpice,  Paris;  J.  H.  Rosny,  Sr.,  the  novelist; 
Charles  Gounod,  Jules  Massenet — these  autograph  letters 
were  given  me  by  Brander  Matthews  out  of  sheer  kind 
ness,  Jules  Claretie,  CatuIIe  Mendes — need  I  tell  you, 
the  incomparable  writer  and  once  son-in-law  of  Theophile 


AUTOGRAPH   LETTERS  249 

Gautier,  himself  surnamed  the  impeccable — Camille  Saint- 
Saens,  Conductor  Felix  Weingartner;  the  composer  of 
"The  Attack  on  the  Mill,"  Alfred  Bruneau,  and  last,  not 
least,  a  card  from  Madame  Franklin  Grout,  dated  1909, 
Villa  Tanit,  Antibes.  She  thanks  me  for  the  Flaubert 
study  in  Egoists.  Madame  Grout  was  formerly  Carolina 
Commainville,  the  favourite  niece  of  Gustave  Flaubert, 
who,  supposedly  egotist,  gave  up  his  personal  fortune 
when  the  husband  of  his  niece  became  embarrassed  in 
business.  As  you  already  know,  I  am  an  enraged  Flau- 
bertian,  and  have  been  spreading  his  gospel  for  thirty 
years.  The  very  name  of  her  villa,  Tanit,  has  a  touch  of 
Salammbo.  Her  second  husband,  Dr.  Grout,  was  one  of 
the  physicians  at  the  private  sanatorium  of  Dr.  Blanche, 
where  unfortunate  Guy  de  Maupassant  was  confined  and 
died.  Henry  Labouchere  wrote  in  London  Truth  at  the 
time  of  De  Maupassant's  death  that  Guy  was  a  natural 
son  of  Flaubert's,  and  that  he  told  his  own  story  in  his 
best  novel,  Pierre  et  Jean — best  after  Une  vie.  There 
is  not  a  scintilla  of  evidence  to  support  this  romantic 
yarn.  Flaubert  formed  the  talents  of  his  pupil,  Guy — 
a  mere  child  in  comparison  with  his  mighty  master, 
and  one  who  was  grateful  enough  to  testify  to  that 
fact,  a  fact  sometimes  overlooked  by  young  writers,  who 
prefer  his  elaborately  carved  cherry-stones  to  the  Mas 
sive  figures  chiselled  from  the  solid  marble.  My  auto 
graphic  treasure  of  treasures  are  three  pages  of  a  manu 
script  in  the  handwriting  of  Flaubert,  corrected  for  the 
printer,  exceptions  and  errors  noted.  Madame  Bovary 
— one  of  the  glories  of  French  literature,  as  Henry  James 
has  said  in  a  moment  of  unusual  expansion  (he  alternately 
admired  and  disliked  Flaubert) — in  the  making.  I  re 
produced  one  of  these  pages  in  Egoists.  I  also  possess 


250  STEEPLEJACK 

a  letter  of  the  Master,  probably  addressed  to  his  lady 
love,  Louise  Colet,  the  woman  whose  epitaph  was  written 
by  Maxime  Ducamp  thus:  "Here  lies  the  woman  who 
compromised  Victor  Cousin,  made  Alfred  de  Musset 
ridiculous,  calumniated  Gustave  Flaubert,  and  tried  to 
assassinate  Alphonse  Karr.  Requiescat  in  pace."  A 
reader  of  the  heart  of  woman,  poor  Flaubert,  never 
theless,  stumbled  in  his  judgment  of  the  spitefully 
shrewish  creature  who  had  tried  to  rob  George  Sand  of 
her  literary  laurels.  Robert  Browning  said:  "God  be 
thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures  boasts  two  soul- 
sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with,  one  to  show  a  woman 
when  he  loves  her."  Flaubert,  one  of  nature's  noblest, 
showed  his  love  for  a  worthless  woman  by  facing  the 
shrugs  and  sneers  of  the  Parisian  literary  world. 


XXVII 
MID-VICTORIAN  MAX 

I  never  believed  in  criticising  a  criticism,  i.  e.9  a 
criticism  concerning  myself.  That  way  lies  confusion 
of  spirit;  besides,  it's  a  waste  of  time.  Because  a  critic 
doesn't  like  your  work  and  says  so,  he  is  not  necessarily 
in  the  wrong.  He  is  often  right.  I  mention  this  as  a 
mild  preparation  to  the  pleasing  story  of  a  verbal  war 
fare  indulged  in  once  upon  a  time  by  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr. 
Huneker.  No  blood  was  spilt,  no  bones  were  broken. 
Our  native  bad  tempers  only  peeped  out  at  intervals; 
as  the  Colonel  would  say,  we  had  a  bully  time.  But 
first  I  must  begin  with  Max  Beerbohm,  whose  too  few 
books  have  been  a  source  of  joy  to  me  as  they  are  to 
lovers  of  prose  as  palatable  as  dry  sherry.  In  Unicorns 
I  ranked  Mr.  Beerbohm  with  the  stylists  who  produce 
slowly  and  with  infinite  pains  an  astringent  liqueur  for 
connoisseurs.  "Precious?"  Yes,  at  times,  but  as  irony 
is  his  happiest  medium,  his  form  and  utterance  are  condi 
tioned  by  it.  Max  is  a  born  classic,  as  readers  of  the 
delightful  Works  and  Zuleika  Dobson  need  not  be  told. 
Well,  in  1903,  on  the  appearance  of  my  Iconoclasts, 
which  had  a  fair  measure  of  critical  and  public  success 
in  London — Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  wrote  appreciatively 
of  the  book — a  copy  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Beerbohm, 
then  writing  for  The  Saturday  Review.  Result:  one  of 
the  old-fashioned  critical  scarifications.  My  unfortunate 
group  of  Iconoclasts  were  bowled  over  by  a  pen,  so  often 
languid  and  affected,  but  become  vigorous,  ferocious, 

351 


252  STEEPLEJACK 

possibly  because  I  was  a  Yankee.  It  was  a  page  of  bril 
liant,  destructive  criticism.  It  did  the  book  much  good 
as  far  as  sales  were  concerned — adverse  criticism  is  better 
than  none — and  Bernard  Shaw  wrote  me  a  letter  con 
gratulating  me  on  the  honour  of  being  slashed  in  The 
Saturday.  I  didn't  precisely  see  the  honour,  though  I 
understood  the  kindly  interest  displayed  by  Max.  Over 
here  the  review  attracted  the  attention  and  the  late 
Harry  Thurston  Peck  tried  to  "sic"  me  on  the  English 
critic.  He  said  that  the  Beerbohm  style  was  constipated, 
mine  copious;  therefore,  we  must  be  antipathetic  to  one 
another.  This  reasoning  did  not  appeal  to  me,  and  I 
refused  to  be  drawn  into  controversy.  Two  exceptions 
I  did  take  to  the  article,  mentally,  of  course,  and  without 
impugning  the  general  conclusions  of  the  writer.  One 
was  being  called  a  "yellow  journalist"  when  everyone 
knew  that  my  colour  was  "purple."  I  wrote  "purple 
panels"  then,  or  tried  to;  the  other  exception  was  being 
described  as  writing  like  a  "drunken  helot."  That 
struck  me  as  a  contradiction,  for  helots,  drunk  or  sober, 
did  not  write  at  all,  not  even  on  the  tablets  of  their 
memory.  However,  that  is  a  mere  scratch,  and  I  did 
not  explain  it  to  Mr.  Beerbohm,  knowing  how  busy  he 
was  at  the  moment  demonstrating  to  his  cockney  read 
ers  what  a  great  dramatist  Mr.  Shaw  was;  infinitely 
greater  than  Arthur  Pinero. 

As  for  the  demerits  of  Iconoclasts,  I  have  naught  to 
say,  except  that  it  has  sold  better  than  any  of  my  books, 
possibly  an  ominous  sign  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Beerbohm, 
who  has,  no  doubt,  forgotten  all  about  his  clever  review. 
That  other  critics  did  not  agree  with  his  verdict  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  case;  notably  Remy  de  Gourmont 
— who  also  gave  me  the  opening  review  in  the  Mercure 


MID-VICTORIAN  MAX  253 

de  France,  a  long  article  on  "Chopin,"  now  included  in 
a  volume  of  his  Epilogues.  That  absence  of  "tendenz" 
which  William  James  complained  about  in  my  Egoists, 
a  refusal  on  my  part  to  indulge  in  so-called  "general 
views,"  in  any  neat  little  theory  or  "problem,"  met  the 
approval  of  Remy  de  Gourmont,  who  detested  phrases 
and  empty  formulas.  I  am  speaking  now  of  Icono 
clasts.  But  in  La  Plume  (July  15  to  August  i,  1905) 
Paul  Hyacinthe  Loyson — the  son  of  the  one  time  famous 
priest  and  orator,  Pere  Hyacinthe  Loyson — seemingly 
agreed  with  William  James.  He  wrote,  inter  alia: 
"Pauteur  est  un  fin  gourmet  des  belles-lettres  .  .  .  je 
ne  sache  pas  de  plus  beau  sujet  pour  un  these  de  doctorat 
es-Iettres.  M.  Huneker  auquel  il  ne  manque  plus  que 
la  Sorbonne,  le  trouvera  en  latence  dans  chaque  page 
de  son  livre  vivant.  Ce  qu'il  manque,  c'est  une  preface 
d'ensemble  que  Tediteur  dramatique  est  fort  capable  de 
nous  brosser  a  traits  larges  et  drus.  .  .  .  Precieux  vade- 
mecum,  le  livre  de  M.  Huneker  leur  offre  je  le  repete, 
un  repertoire  analytique  et  critique  .  .  .  son  essai  sur 
Ibsen,  qu'il  faut  mettre  hors  pair,  est  inestimable  a  cet 
egard."  We  are  here  far  from  the  "yellow  and  drunken 
helot"  of  Mr.  Beerbohm.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not  write 
a  "preface  d'ensemble"  as  suggested  by  the  French 
critic.  I  preferred  letting  the  title,  Iconoclasts,  serve  as 
the  "tendenz"  of  the  book;  in  it  all  are  image-breakers 
save,  perhaps,  the  cynical  Paul  Hervieu,  who  strayed  in 
by  mistake.  (To-day  I  loathe  the  book.) 

Now  for  a  little  elliptical  escape: 

Here  is  a  post-card  dated  9th  May,  1905,  10  Adelphi 
Terrace,  London,  W.  C.,  and  signed  by  Himself—  "G. 
Bernard  Shaw."  (He  is  fond  of  using  post-cards  and  has 


254  STEEPLEJACK 

written  some  memorable  things  on  them.)  He  wrote: 
"John  Bull  is  not  yet  published"  (he  means  John  Bull's 
Other  Island),  "I  am  too  busy  rehearsing  and  producing 
to  attend  to  my  publishing  business  for  the  moment. 
I  proposed  to  Brentanos  that  they  should  get  you  to 
edit  a  selection  from  my  musical  feuilletons  in  The  World, 
etc.  They  said  it  was  an  excellent  idea  to  get  you  to 
edit  my  dramatic  feuilletons  and  that  they  had  bought 
up  the  old  numbers  of  The  Saturday  Review  accordingly. 
Knock  the  difference  into  their  heads  if  you  can.  My 
sister  in  Germany  is  furious  because  you  have  compro 
mised  her  social  position  by  describing  me  in  Success 
(which  has  reached  Germany)  as  a  'peasant  lad/  The 
Shaw  peasants !  Good  God !  You  know  not  what  you 
say.  Why  did  you  give  me  the  slip  last  fall?  G. 
Bernard  Shaw." 

The  "peasant  lad"  I  shall  presently  deal  with;  of  the 
Dramatic  Opinions  I  would  speak  first.  The  late  Volney 
Streamer,  literary  adviser  of  the  Brentanos,  had  collected 
all  the  critical  articles  of  Mr.  Shaw  from  The  Saturday. 
I  was  asked  to  write  a  Prelude  to  the  book,  which  con 
tains  some  of  the  author's  always  engaging  and  often 
fallacious  criticisms.  In  my  preface  or  introduction, 
rather,  impertinence,  I  happened  to  speak  of  Mr.  Beer- 
bohm  as  "Mid- Victorian  Max."  If  I  had  tried  to  be 
funny  and  had  written  "Mud-Victorian" — for  London 
was  clogged  with  literary  mud  during  the  Yellow  Book 
period  of  the  nineties — or  even  "Max- Victorian,"  I 
might  have  understood  what  followed  in  the  pages  of 
The  Saturday.  Max  went  up  into  the  air.  Another 
page  of  loving  invectives  followed,  worse  than  the  first 
review,  and  I  began  to  feel  famous.  He  informed  his 
readers  that  he  was  proud  of  the  ascription,  Mid- Vic- 


MID-VICTORIAN  MAX  255 

torian.  If  he  were,  why  so  hot,  little  man?  as  Emerson 
asked.  If  I  wrote  the  precise  phrase  that  pleased  him, 
why  should  he  foam  at  the  mouth,  metaphorically  speak 
ing?  In  classic  parlance  I  "got  his  goat/'  and  also  a  lot 
of  free  advertising.  That  was  better  than  my  publicly 
objecting  to  his  "purple  helot,"  wasn't  it?  I  suspect 
that  Mr.  Shaw  was  not  overjoyed  with  my  preface,  as 
later  he  wrote  one  for  the  English  edition.  The  pro 
jected  collection  of  his  musical  criticisms  did  not  appear — • 
a  good  thing,  as  Shaw,  whether  writing  of  pictures  or  the 
tone-art,  is  distinctly  amateurish.  Glittering  generali 
ties  are  his,  but  not  backed  up  by  technical  training,  wide 
experience,  or  genuine  musical  temperament.  John  Run- 
ciman  told  me  that  he  had  a  poor  opinion  of  Shaw  as  a 
music-critic. 

The  "peasant  boy"  caused  all  the  trouble,  and  al 
though  I  tried  to  explain  to  Mr.  Shaw  that  the  head-line 
in  Success  Magazine  was  none  of  my  making,  he  would 
not  listen  to  me.  Robert  Mackey,  then  associate  editor 
of  Success,  wrote  that  head-line,  and  he  has  since  deplored 
doing  so.  However,  his  sorrow  is  about  as  deep  as  mine. 
Why  should  Mr.  Shaw  heartily  dislike  the  "peasant"? 
Scratch  a  socialist  and  you  come  on  a  snob.  Max  Beer- 
bohm  has  said  in  effect  that  socialism  will  never  succeed 
till  snobbishness  ceases.  He  is  right.  Mr.  Shaw  is  not 
of  peasant  origin  though  he  has  written  that  most  Irish 
men  originally  came  over  from  Liverpool  on  cattle-boats; 
he  is  middle-class  Cork  (with  a  Cork  soul),  and  his 
family  was  not  rich.  He  was  a  poor  youth  when  he  went 
to  London,  and  he  is  none  the  worse  for  his  struggle. 
The  newspapers  created  the  Shaw  legend;  that  he  was 
a  vegetarian,  a  teetotaler,  anti-vaccine,  anti-vivisection, 
anti-evening  clothes,  wearing  Jaeger  flannels,  anti-every- 


256  STEEPLEJACK 


thing  except  notoriety.  Yet  for  repeating  in  my  article 
what  was  common  talk,  thanks  to  his  own  self-propa 
ganda,  St.  George — who  has  slain  so  many  dragons — 
fell  foul  of  me  in  a  certain  letter,  calling  me  the  short, 
ugly  word  on  every  count. 


XXVIII 
G.  B.  S. 

My  main  offence,  however,  was  the  "peasant  lad"; 
that  rankled.  I  met  his  cousin,  Robert  Shaw,  a  news 
paper  correspondent  for  the  New  York  Sun  and  some 
London  journals  in  Berlin.  He  had  not  seen  Success, 
and  I  suspect  Mr.  Shaw's  sister  did  not  see  it  then. 
The  foolish  part  of  the  affair  was  that  Mr.  Shaw  didn't 
believe  my  story  of  the  mistake;  he  fancied  a  lurking 
insult  when  none  was  intended;  indeed,  I  could  only 
plead  ignorance  of  another's  error.  So  when  he  wrote 
me,  August,  1905:  "My  dear  Huneker:  You  really  must 
come  over  here  and  have  your  mind  properly  trained; 
you  will  never  be  anything  but  a  clever  slummocker  in 
America,"  I  knew  that  further  argument  was  useless. 
And  who  was  I  to  succeed  where  the  only  Shaw  had  so 
signally  failed?  I  wrote  a  weekly  column  for  years  in 
the  London  Musical  Courier;  I  had  lived  in  London 
and  I  loved  the  city,  not  evidently  to  no  purpose,  for  if 
thirty  years'  residence  couldn't  change  Shaw  from  being 
a  clever  Irish  slummocker,  what  chance  had  I  for  spiritual 
redemption?  I  remained  in  America — the  America  that 
first  recognised  him,  thanks  to  Richard  Mansfield. 

I  was  the  first  to  write  of  him  as  early  as  1888.  In 
1890  I  persuaded  Marc  Blumenberg  to  buy  an  article 
of  Shaw's  for  The  Musical  Courier,  which  he  did.  It 
was  printed  in  June  or  July  of  that  year,  though  I  shan't 
swear  as  to  the  year,  as  I  have  not  kept  my  files  of  that 
journal;  it  may  have  been  1891.  But  it  was  the  first 

257 


258  STEEPLEJACK 

musical  "story"  by  Bernard  Shaw  to  appear  in  an  Ameri 
can  publication.  What  was  it  about?  If  I  remember, 
it  preached  the  superiority  of  the  forerunners  of  the 
pianoforte  over  the  modern  instrument.  I  have  often 
noticed  with  amusement  that  literary  persons  usually 
like  tinkling  music.  They  speak  of  dulcimers,  harpsi 
chords,  clavichords,  they  prate  of  cymbaloms,  harps, 
and  lutes,  but  for  full-blooded,  highly-coloured  composi 
tions  for  the  keyboard,  whether  by  Bach  or  Beethoven 
or  Chopin,  they  have  an  abhorrence.  The  subdued 
light  of  Chinese  lanterns,  the  Bohemian  studio  atmos 
phere,  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  music  made  by  young  men 
wearing  bangles — Ah !  that  is  lofty  art.  George  Moore 
in  Evelyn  Innes  goes  into  the  matter  heart  and  soul. 
So  did  Shaw;  and  recently  I  read  in  Ezra  Pound's  Pavan- 
nes  and  Divisions  a  fresh  eulogy  of  Arnold  Dolmetsch 
and  his  old  instruments.  We  had  Dolmetsch  over  here 
many  years  ago.  He  is  all  right,  so  is  the  antique  and 
charming  music  he  plays,  but  when  Shaw  begins  abusing 
the  modern  concert  grand  pianoforte,  I  can't  help  re 
calling  his  other  article,  amusing  enough,  in  an  English 
monthly  or  fortnightly,  in  which  he  tells  how  he  studied 
the  piano. 

He  unblushingly  gives  his  reason  for  mildly  abusing 
me,  which  reason  corroborates  my  claim  as  being  his 
"discoverer"  over  here.  Under  date  i6th  September, 
1905,  he  writes:  "The  reason  I  call  you  a  slummocker 
and  heap  insults  on  you,  is  that  you  are  very  useful  to 
me  in  America,  and  quite  friendly;  consequently,  you 
must  be  educated  or  you  will  compromise  me."  The 
blind  leading  the  blind !  I  don't  think  his  allusion  to 
my  usefulness  cynical.  What  else  is  a  critic  good  for 
but  to  make  himself  useful?  What  is  still  more  amusing 


G.  B.  S.  259 

was  his  communication  on  music  in  a  letter  dated  I3th 
August,  1905,  from  Cork.  It  is,  like  the  others,  in  his 
small,  distinct  handwriting.  "Some  day  I  shall  talk  to 
you  about  music.  I  haven't  the  time  to  write  now. 
Last  winter  I  heard  Liszt's  'Faust'  symphony  played  for 
the  first  time  in  London — old-fashioned  before  it  was 
born — an  obsession,  with  the  new  chords  of  the  fifties!" 
We  had  been  listening  in  New  York  to  the  "Faust"  sym 
phony  for  how  many  years?  How  shallow  is  Shaw's 
judgment  may  be  noted  in  his  neglect  to  study  Liszt  in 
a  proper  historical  perspective.  "The  chords  of  the 
fifties"  were  Liszt's  original  harmonic  inventions,  not  to 
speak  of  his  themes,  some  of  which  were  utilised  by 
Wagner  in  "The  Ring,"  "Tristan,"  and  "Parsifal." 
I'll  go  further:  Without  Liszt  "Parsifal"  would  not  be 
as  it  is.  Liszt  contributed  much  to  the  mystic  "atmos 
phere."  So  much  for  George,  the  clever  musical  slum- 
mocker!  He  continues:  "I  know  a  lot  more  than  you 
do,  especially  about  music.  What  I  said  about  Liszt's 
music  is  exactly  accurate.  Go  and  study  the  operas  of 
Cornelius  (delightful  music)  if  you  want  to  understand 
that  particular  moment." 

But  George,  dear  old  son !  It  was  not  necessary  for 
me  to  study  the  music  of  Peter  Cornelius  as  I  had  listened 
to  his  masterpiece,  season  after  season  in  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  as  conducted  by  Anton  SeidI,  sung  by 
Emil  Fischer.  And  don't  you  know  that  Cornelius  was 
a  pet  pupil  in  composition  of  Franz  Lizst  during  your 
famous  "fifties"?  That  "The  Barber  of  Bagdad"  was 
produced  in  1858  at  Liszt's  suggestion  in  Weimar?  You 
probably  do  know  more  than  I;  you  know  more  than 
anyone,  living  or  dead;  like  the  little  girl  in  the  play, 


260  STEEPLEJACK 

for  you  the  King  is  always  naked;  but  you  didn't  know 
about  the  "Faust"  symphony  and  the  important  part  it 
played  in  Wagner's  music-drama  because  you  never  read 
with  understanding  the  Wagner-Liszt  correspondence; 
and  you  didn't  know  about  Cornelius  and  his  acknowl 
edged  indebtedness  to  Liszt — though  his  is  individual 
and  truly  "delightful  music";  yet  you  know  more  about 
music  than  I  ?  Very  well,  then  take  the  trouble  to  read 
my  "Liszt"  study  (1911),  and  in  the  future  you  will 
make  no  such  absurd  "breaks."  George  was  annoyed 
because  I  had  challenged  him  to  play  the  first  movement 
of  Chopin's  E  minor  concerto,  but  as  he  was  a  one- 
fingered  virtuoso — he  now  works  a  mechanical  piano, 
bless  his  musical  soul! — and  he  answered  me  as  above. 
I  had  studied  the  Chopin  concerto  with  Rafael  Joseffy — 
my  copy  is  full  of  his  pencilled  fingering  and  phrasing — 
and  with  that  incomparable  master  at  the  second  piano 
forte,  I  had  played  the  allegro.  At  least  I  can  play  it 
better  than  the  Aged  Mariner  of  Adelphi  Terrace  (isn't 
all  this  lovely  and  childish,  our  "daring"  and  boasting?). 
I  had  answered  a  letter  from  Shaw,  August,  1905  (i3th 
inst.),  in  an  equally  abusive  key.  It  was  at  Sorrento, 
Italy,  and  I  had  been  drinking  the  hot,  heady,  generous 
Capri  wine,  which  primed  me  for  retort;  I  must  have 
made  such  a  judicious  person  as  G.  B.  S.  grieve.  I 
dared  him  to  take  off  his  shoes  and  show  the  world  the 
web-foot  of  a  bog-trotter.  This  charming  remark  I  had 
remembered  in  some  Lever  novel.  Uncle  George  must 
have  smiled,  but  he  never  turned  a  hair.  His  reply  was 
characteristic  Shaw:  "Your  chest  being  now  relieved, 
we  can  resume  cordial  relations."  What  is  there  to  be 
said  to  such  a  saintly  man  who  can  thus  turn  the  other 
cheek  in  so  diplomatic  a  manner? 


G.  B.  S.  261 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  after  the  "peasant  lad"  epi 
sode  he  wrote  an  article  for  the  New  York  Metropolitan 
Magazine,  in  which  he  briefly  alluded  to  my  supposed 
slip.  (Ah !  the  honour  of  the  Shaw  family  was  at  stake; 
Shaw  the  socialist !)  He  ended  with  a  denial  of  the  "fic 
tion"  that  I  was  trying  to  pass  off  as  truth,  and  after 
rallying  me  came  to  an  abrupt  close  with:  "Now,  James  I" 
— It  was  very  funny  to  me  and  to  my  friends,  who  sent 
me  numerous  clippings  of  the  sly  little  coda.  Mr.  Shaw 
is  as  dangerous  as  an  army  with  brass  bands  to  argue 
with,  especially  in  public,  and  the  only  reason  I  am  telling 
all  these  highly  unimportant  things  is  because  someone 
else  may  do  so  and  get  the  facts  muddled.  I  am  now 
convinced  that  Shaw  was  grooming  me  as  his  future 
biographer;  hence  the  hint  about  being  "useful  to  me." 
But  I  was  not  a  bird  of  his  feather  and  could  not  be  per 
suaded  to  alight  on  his  twig,  there  to  be  snared.  Pro 
fessor  Archibald  Henderson  fell  into  the  trap,  and  what 
he  endured  while  spinning  his  yarn — fancy  writing  the 
life  of  a  man  not  dead ! — really  the  "autobiography," 
for  he  worked  with  Shaw — he  alone  can  tell.  The  mean 
est  part  of  the  thing  is  that  recently  Mr.  Shaw  said  that 
Mr.  Chesterton  was  the  only  man  who  understood  him. 

0  gratitude,  where  is  thy  Shaw?     O  Shaw,  where  is  thy 
Archibald? 

I  have  been  told  that  another  of  my  offences  was  what 

1  had  printed  in  the  chapter  devoted  to  "The  Quin 
tessence  of  Shaw."     I  asked  there  if  Mr.  Shaw  is  brilliant 
on  bran,  what  would  he  not  be  on  beef  and  beer?     This 
question  angered  Mr.  Beerbohm;  possibly  I  might  have 
asked  that  Mid- Victorian  if  his  imitation  of  the  essay  style 
of  Charles  Lamb  did  sometimes  turn  out  cold  mutton. 


262  STEEPLEJACK 


Perhaps  Bernard  Shaw  does  furtively  eat  roast-beef 
sandwiches,  and  at  midnight;  perhaps  he  does  secretly 
sip  Shandygaff — not  Kit  Morley's  hippocrene  draught, 
but  the  garden  variety  of  half  ale,  half  porter.  Perish 
the  proposition !  Shaw  eating  meat  would  cause  more 
of  a  row  than  did  the  revelations  of  Anna  Seuron,  the 
governess  in  the  Tolstoy  household,  who  had  caught  old 
man  Tolstoy  in  his  bare  feet  and  at  the  pantry  gobbling 
raw  beef.  And  the  hour  was  midnight.  That  beef  lead 
ing-motive  resounded  the  world  over.  In  a  roundabout 
fashion,  I  heard  that  one  morning  while  at  Lady  Gregory's, 
Mr.  Shaw  came  down  to  breakfast  in  a  truly  masculine 
mood.  He  must  have  glanced  cannibalistically  at  the 
cutlets,  for  Mrs.  Shaw  warningly  exclaimed:  "Now, 
George."  He  is  said  to  have  uttered  Banshee  curses 
and  to  have  pitched  in  and  eaten  a  pound  of  meat — or 
was  it  hog  and  hominy?  Ochone !  And  he  may  have 
smoked  a  pipe  in  the  hidden  gardens  of  Coole  Park ! 
But  I  shan't  vouch  for  the  respectability  of  the  anecdote, 
nor  am  I  violating  confidence,  as  it  was  told  me  without 
restrictions,  though  not  by  Lady  Gregory. 

I  met  Mr.  Shaw  at  Baireuth,  in  1896,  on  the  esplanade 
of  the  Wagner  Theatre,  where  he  informed  me  of  the 
whereabouts  of  John  Runciman,  music-critic  of  The 
Saturday  Review.  I  liked  the  looks  of  Shaw — tall, 
weedy,  a  bearded  man,  with  a  gangling  gait.  I  liked 
him  better  in  1903  when  I  saw  him  coming  from  a  per 
formance  of  his  travesty  in  blank  verse,  "The  Admirable 
Bashville,  or  Constancy  Rewarded,"  at  the  Imperial 
Theatre.  Reformers  are  usually  dyspeptic.  When  I 
speak  to  them  I  always  turn  rny  head  the  other  way, 
especially  if  I  am  dose  to  a  man  who  doesn't  drink  or 
smoke.  That  sort  is  pestiferous.  But  Bernard,  the 


G.  B.  S.  263 

Shaw,  is  eupeptic.  He  may  have  a  weak  stomach,  irrita 
ble  nerves,  like  most  thinkers,  but  personally  he  is  as 
sweet  and  wholesome  as  John  Burroughs  or  Edwin 
Markham.  He  has  magnetism  when  he  chooses  to  turn 
on  the  current.  He  looks  like  Everyman.  He  is  far  from 
handsome,  and  his  brogue  is  Corkonian.  Careless  as  to 
dress,  he  is  extremely  courteous.  He  is  said  to  be  a  physi 
cal  coward,  but  boasts  the  rarer  quality  of  moral  heroism. 
He  wrote  at  the  time  of  McKinley's  assassination  that 
Czolgoz  was  the  bravest  man  in  America  because  he  stood 
alone.  Shaw  proved  that  he  didn't  lack  moral  bravery 
when  he  bearded  ex-Premier  Asquith  and  his  ministry 
amid  the  execrations  of  the  press  in  England  and  America. 
Lloyd  George  owes  his  fellow-Celt  a  candle.  Yet  this 
dauntless  ink-slinger  once  ran  away  as  fast  as  his  long 
legs  could  carry  him  from  a  socialistic  gathering  in  Hyde 
Park.  He  didn't  propose  to  dodge  brickbats  and  dead 
cats,  realising  the  truth  that  he  who  fights  and  runs  away 
will  live  to  fight  another  day.  He  did.  William  Morris, 
magnificent  man  and  poet,  would  always  roar  when  he 
related  this  anecdote.  Daddy  Long-legs,  he  called  Shaw. 
In  the  deep  and  earnest  eyes  of  Mr.  Shaw  are  humour 
and  kindliness.  He  begged  me  not  to  write  anything 
more  about  his  charitable  disposition,  "else,"  he  added, 
"I'll  be  having  all  the  beggars  in  London  at  my  back 
door."  And  a  mighty  good  thing  it  would  have  been 
for  the  beggars,  though  they  might  have  got  more  advice 
than  ha'pence.  ("Keep  it  up,  Shamus,  keep  it  up!"  I 
can  hear  George  muttering  as  he  reads  this.  ''You  are 
again  advertising  me,  again  being  'useful.'") 


XXIX 
HIS  LETTERS 

An  extract  from  letter  dated  August  13,  1905:  "You 
are  quite  right  in  saying  that  I  lead  the  life  of  a  saint; 
that  is  my  trade.  But  a  saint  is  not  what  you  allege 
me  to  be.  There  is  a  convention  that  saints  are  disin 
terested  and  ascetic,  just  as  there  is  a  convention  that 
sailors  are  frank  and  generous  and  unsuspicious.  .  .  . 
When  you  try  to  make  out  that  I  pose  as  Diogenes  (I 
don't),  that  I  am  at  the  heart  just  the  same  sloppy, 
maudlin,  coward — making  a  metre  of  it  as  the  feeblest 
of  my  readers,  I  fly  at  you  promptly  for  debasing  the 
moral  currency."  (The  spectacle  of  Preacher  George 
accusing  anyone  of  debasing  the  moral  currency  after 
his  successful  efforts  at  the  game  is  enough  to  make  poor 
old  George  Eliot  sit  up  on  her  eternal  gridiron.)  "I  am 
really  a  coward  speaking  with  authority  of  the  dangers 
of  cowardice,  a  sort  of  conceited  prig  who  has  found  out 
the  weakness  of  the  current  morality  by  practising  it, 
a  voluptuary  who  finds  himself  not  on  the  infinite  illu 
sions  of  a  monastic  imagination,  but  on  a  sufficiency  of 
actual  adventures,  and  a  dozen  other  things  that  I  have 
not  time  to  enumerate." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  insinuate  that  the  spirit  in  my 
"Quintessence  of  Shaw"  was  an  ironical  spirit,  and  that 
both  Beerbohm  and  Shaw  missed  it,  whether  wilfully  or 
not,  I  can't  say;  but  the  fact  remains  that  the  entire 
chapter  was  written  in  the  key  of  irony,  extravagant 
irony,  and  that  a  professional  ironist  like  "Max"  and  a 

264 


HIS  LETTERS  265 


Brummagen-Englfshman  like  Shaw  did  not  see  this  is 
another  confirmation  of  the  suspicious  hatred  entertained 
by  Europeans  generally  towards  our  playful  American 
manner.  I  did  call  Shaw  a  saint — jestingly.  I  did  ad 
dress  him  as  St.  George  or  St.  Bernard.  I  did  say  that, 
secretly,  he  was  a  sloppy  sentimentalist.  And  he,  of  all 
men,  became  enraged  at  my  very  palpable  fooling. 
Really,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  in  Paul  Hervieu's  re 
mark  to  me: — that  indulgence  in  the  mode  ironical  steril 
ises  the  sense  of  humour.  Nevertheless,  I  cling  to  my 
superstition  that  Shaw  is  a  wingless  angel  with  an  old 
maid's  temperament,  but  one  who  can't  take  a  joke. 
John  Quinn  is  right: — the  Irish  are  witty  but  lack  the 
saving  sense  of  humour. 

Shaw  never  had  an  original  idea,  but  decorated  him 
self  with  tall  feathers  pulled  from  Ibsen,  Strindberg, 
Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  even  Maeterlinck,  in  his  stage 
directions ;  above  all  with  the  feathers  of  Marx,  Nietzsche 
and  Samuel  Butler.  He  made  a  fortune  out  of  the 
Nietzsche  philosophy,  and  his  native  Irish  wit  and  im 
pudence  imposed  on  a  public  innocent  of  the  sources  of 
his  knowledge.  But  oh !  the  box-offices  of  this  "peasant 
lad"  from  Cork,  who  sold  his  Celtic  birthright  for  a 
golden  mess  of  British  pottage.  Neither  with  Synge 
and  Yeats,  nor  with  George  Moore,  Joyce,  or  Stephens, 
will  he  be  ranged,  though  he  had  talent  for  fiction,  wit 
ness  his  clever  novels.  And  now  after  lecturing  on  the 
evil  of  being  Bernard,  let  me  say  that  the  more  I  write 
about  him  the  more  I  love  him;  as  Oscar  Wilde  said — 
according  to  Vincent  O'SuIIivan — in  reply  to  the  ques 
tion:  "Do  you  know  George  Moore?"  'Yes,  I  know 
George  Moore,  know  him  so  very  well  that  I  haven't 
spoken  to  him  for  ten  years."  I  revere  Mr.  Shaw  the 


266  STEEPLEJACK 

man,  though   I   dissemble  my  love,  and   I   admire  the 

writer    who    succeeded    in    England  where    Ibsen    and 

Nietzsche  did  not,  while  exploiting  their  genius  to  his 
own  uses. 

But  the  letters  of  George  Bernard  Shaw!  Master 
pieces,  some  of  them.  Superman  Billingsgate,  also. 
We  had  another  tiff  over  a  letter  he  had  sent  me  relative 
to  "Candida,"  in  which  he  confided  to  my  "discreation" 
to  use  what  I  wished,  and  from  which  I  extracted  just 
one  paragraph,  to  be  found  on  page  254  of  Iconoclasts. 
He  had,  this  St.  Bernard,  the  cheek  to  accuse  me  of  print 
ing  his  letters  without  his  permission,  he,  all  the  while 
hoping  and  praying  I  would  print  them  in  their  entirety; 
for  notoriety  is  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  He  even  per 
suaded  several  critical  friends  in  London  that  I  had  been 
indiscreet  and  I  was  duly  reproved  for  my  "blithe"  beha 
viour  in  the  newspapers.  You  shall  see  that  he  not  only 
gave  me  permission  but  that  I  only  reproduced  one  para 
graph.  Possibly  he  feared  that  again  I  might  write  of 
his  sporting  genealogy  that  he  was  "W.  S.  Gilbert  out 
of  Ibsen"  —and  an  extravagant  compliment  at  that. 

Nor  have  I  been  the  only  victim  in  this  respect  of  his 
caprice.  There  were  several  of  his  "disciples"  who 
could  tell  the  same  tale.  He  assured  me  that  I  had  picked 
up  my  philosophy  from  the  gutter,  meaning  that  he  hated 
individualism;  but  his  socialism  has  always  been  either 
a  joke  or  a  puzzle  to  his  friends  and  socialists  alike.  In 
reality  Shaw  is  the  perfect  flowering  of  the  individualist, 
the  moral  anarch  in  action.  Just  as  Henry  James  ex 
pressed  his  dislike  of  Stendhal,  without  whom  he  and  the 
entire  modern  school  of  psychologists  in  fiction  would 
not  have  been  as  they  are — this  includes  Bourget,  Mere- 


HIS   LETTERS  267 


dith,  even  Tolstoy,  who  has  handsomely  acknowledged 
his  obligations  to  the  author  of  La  Chartreuse  de  Parme 
— so  Shaw  practically  admits  that  he  is  as  much  of  an 
anarch  as  Max  Stirner.  Karl  Marx  he  long  ago  repudi 
ated.  He  would  set  up  a  pontifical  throne  of  his  own. 
But  he  is  only  a  condiment  in  the  stodgy  stew  of  British 
socialism,  a  flavour,  nothing  more.  He  mocks  at  my  in 
corrigible  romanticism,  but  if  the  wages  of  sin  is  death,  the 
wages  of  goodness  may  be  insipidity.  Dostoievsky  has 
profoundly  said  that  "One  must  be  really  a  great  man  to 
be  able  to  make  a  stand  even  against  common  sense." 
Shaw  is  too  sensible.  He  thinks  more  of  a  drain-pipe 
than  a  cathedral;  socialism  is  only  another  name  for 
drain-pipes,  and  while  modern  man  cannot  live  without 
them,  by  them  alone  he  cannot  live.  And  he  has  paid 
the  penalty.  It  is  vision,  not  open  plumbing,  that 
counts.  Vision  Bernard  Shaw  has  not;  in  his  heart  is  a 
box-office.  He,  the  champion  of  liberty,  is  a  philistine. 
Little  wonder  I  sent  him  a  post-card  from  Sorrento  in 
answer  to  his  rakehelly  letters,  and  with  this  inscription: 
a  tomb,  and  on  it  the  words:  "Ci-git,  the  first  of  the  Sha 
vians."  But  I  was  not  exact.  There  is  only  one  and 
last  Shavian,  G.  B.  Shaw.  And  if  the  whole  is  better 
than  the  half,  then  a  half-Shaw  is  better  than  no  bread. 

Let  us  begin  with  his  post-card  dated  12  August,  1904, 
somewhere  in  Rosshire:  "This  is  well.  I  shall  be  back 
in  London  in  October,  where  we  can  foregather  at  our 
ease.  Meanwhile,  give  my  compliments  to  the  genial 
sweet-mouthed  Ibsen"  (I  was  then  en  route  to  Norway). 
"Of  Strindberg  I  have  a  high  opinion,  possibly  because 
I  have  read  very  little  of  him — chiefly  a  story  called 
Memoirs  of  a  Madman,  or  something  like  that,  but  ought 


268  STEEPLEJACK 

to  have  been  called  The  Truth  About  My  Confounded 
Wife."  (Probably  this  meant  Strindberg's  autobiogra 
phy,  Inferno.)  "The  truth  about  Candida  is  useless;  no 
body  will  believe  it;  and  my  letter  will  be  scouted  as  an 
obvious  invention  of  your  own.  I  am  writing  a  play  about 
Ireland  and  England — study  of  national  characteristics. 
Are  you  going  to  Vienna  by  any  chance?  My  German 
translator,  Trebitsch,  can  put  you  on  to  all  the  advanced 
spirits  there.  G.  B.  S."  His  kind  offer  I  didn't  take 
advantage  of,  as  I  had  lived  in  Vienna  and  knew  all  the 
modern  crowd,  Schnitzler,  von  Hofmansthal,  and  the  rest. 
My  translator,  Madame  Lola  Lorme,  lived  there.  I  was 
even  accorded  a  Huneker-Chopin  Evening  in  the  Bee 
thoven  Saal,  so  George  was  fetching  coals  to  Newcastle. 
From  London  under  date  of  4  January,  1904,  he  sent 
me  a  very  interesting  communication,  from  which  I 
give  an  excerpt:  "Dear  Huneker:  I  was  sorry  not  to  see 
more  of  you  on  your  visit  here,  as  you  struck  me  as  being 
a  likable  old  ruffian.  My  wife,  since  your  review  of  'Man 
and  Superman/  will  not  allow  that  you  have  a  spark 
of  intelligence,  but  you  must  come  and  mollify  her  in 
person  when  you  are  over  next.  It  always  amuses  me 
to  see  Candida  stirring  up  oceans  of  sentiment.  I  think 
I  see  you  wallowing  in  it.  Your  writing  always  interests 
me;  but  you  will  never  really  master  the  English  drama 
until  you  study  English  life  and  character.  I  speak  as 
an  Irish  foreigner  who  has  had  to  learn  it  as  one  learns 
Chinese.  My  first  play,  though  performed  in  a  crude 
version  in  1892,  was  not  completed  as  it  stands  at  present 
until  I  had  been  more  than  twenty  years  in  London; 
and  a  great  deal  of  the  complaints  made  of  it  and  other 
works  of  mine  by  Scotch  literary  men  in  London  (you 
know  that  the  literary  life  is  lived  in  a  vacuum)  and  by 


HIS   LETTERS  269 


Yankees,  by  yourself,  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  Eng 
lish  life,  as  I  present  it  with  a  vestryman's  and  politician's 
knowledge  of  it  (to  say  nothing  of  my  private  adventures) , 
is  irritatingly  unnatural  and  repugnant.  When  I  am 
on  the  general  human  nature  plane,  they  are  delighted 
with  me.  When  I  am  on  the  English  plane,  they  become 
soreheaded  at  once.  They  love  Candida;  she  might  be 
an  American,  an  Irishwoman,  a  Scotchwoman,  any  woman 
you  please.  But  take  my  specifically  Englishwomen — 
Blanche  in  'Widower's  House'  (only  one  remove  from 
her  grandmother's  washtub),  Vivie  Warren,  Lady  Cicely 
Waynflete  in  that  excellent  Christian  tract,  'Captain 
Brassbound's  Conversion,'  and,  above  all,  Ann  White- 
field  and  Violet  Robinson  in  the  Superman  drama  (Ann 
being  my  most  gorgeous  female  creation;  you  can  no 
more  appreciate  these  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
clever  as  you  are,  than  you  could  write  Anthony  Trol- 
lope's  novels).  The  men  annoy  you  in  the  same  way; 
you  can  see  the  fun  of  Brittannus  in  'Caesar  and  Cleo 
patra'  and  perhaps  of  the  American  captain  in  'Brass- 
bound'  and  young  Malone  in  the  'Superman,'  where 
national  types  are  openly  made  fun  of;  but  the  Hooligan 
in  'Brassbound,'  the  chauffeur  Straker  in  the  'Superman,' 
the  whole  gang  in  'Widower's  House'  arouse  your  instinc 
tive  anti-English  prejudice  almost  as  if  they  had  been 
done  by  Thackeray,  who  was  so  stupidly  English  that, 
being  a  man  of  genius,  he  wasted  his  life  for  gentility's 
sake,  on  silly  tittle-tattle  relieved  by  occasional  maudlin 
drivel." 

Note:  Mr.  Shaw  forgot  that  London  is  not  far  from 
New  York,  forgot  that  the  characters  he  believed  to  be 
incomprehensible  and  irritating  to  Americans  are  old 


27o  STEEPLEJACK 

friends  from  a  half-hundred  fictions  previous  to  his; 
and  as  for  his  notion  of  our  "national  types,"  yes,  we 
did  laugh  over  them  because  they  were  such  caricatures, 
from  the  Shavian  shadow-land.  Abandon  all  reality, 
ye  who  enter  here !  might  be  a  motto  for  his  fantastic 
plays.  There  is  no  "instinctive  anti-English  prejudice" 
among  Americans,  unless  they  happen  to  be  professional 
Irish-Americans.  Curious,  though,  the  "instinctive" 
Irish  prejudice  against  Thackeray  that  endures.  They 
have  never  forgiven  him  his  stupid  strictures  on  the  people 
and  customs  of  Erin.  Shaw  continues  in  the  same  vein: 
"I  tell  you,  you  don't  appreciate  the  vitality  of  the 
English;  you  see  nothing  but  their  stupidity,  their  moral 
cowardice,  their  utter  lack  of  common  sense,  their  nai've 
acquisitiveness,  their  brainless  cruelty  to  children  and 
criminals,  their  uncritical  obtuseness  or  idolatry  (as  the 
case  may  be),  their  childish  unscrupulousness,  their  in 
sensibility  to,  and  disbelief  in,  any  means  of  persuasion 
except  intimidation  and  coercion,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
And  the  stupidity,  peculiar  to  the  Englishman,  which 
prevents  him  from  knowing  what  he  is  doing,  is  really  a 
stroke  of  genius  on  his  part  and  is  far  more  voluntary 
than  the  bright  American  thinks.  Cromwell  said  that 
no  man  goes  further  than  the  man  who  doesn't  know 
where  he  is  going;  and  in  that  you  have  the  whole  secret 
of  English  success.  What  is  the  use  of  being  bright, 
witty,  subtle,  genial,  if  these  qualities  lead  to  the  subjec 
tion  and  poverty  of  India  and  Ireland,  and  to  the  political 
anarchy  and  corruption  of  the  United  States?  What 
says  my  beautiful,  vital,  victorious  odious-to-all-good- 
Americans,  Miss  Ann  Whitefield?  'The  only  really 
simple  thing  is  to  go  straight  for  what  you  want  and 
grab  it.'  How  disgusting!  How  cynical!  so  say  you; 


HIS  LETTERS  271 


and  so  also  say  the  Filipino  and  the  Red  Indian  of  you 
and  yours."  (Note:  To  us  the  chief  characteristic  of 
Ann  was  peculiarly  Yankee.) 

"Would  you  like  to  see  what  the  English  think  of  the 
Americans?  Read  Algernon  Casterton,  by  Lady  Sykes, 
a  recent  English  novel.  There  you  will  see  the  English 
conception  of  the  American  woman  as  a  cold-blooded 
sexless  prostitute,  who  sells  herself  without  scruple  and 
without  affection  to  the  men  who  can  give  her  the  best 
time  in  London  society,  and  who  makes  her  husband 
pay  for  her  favours  as  if  he  were  a  stranger.  This  is  a 
revolting  notion  to  an  Englishman,  whose  chief  concep 
tion  of  a  wife  is  a  woman  who  will  not  only  keep  house 
for  him  in  return  for  her  board,  but  will  allow  him  the 
use  of  her  person  gratuitously. 

"Some  day  I  will  write  a  play  showing  the  good  side 
of  this  American  'sexlessness'  of  which  London  complains 
so  much.  However,  the  moral  for  you  is,  study  the  Eng 
lish.  There  is  much  to  be  learnt  from  them;  and  I,  who 
have  been  struggling  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
with  their  knavish  brainlessness,  lose  patience  often 
enough;  but  I  get  on  with  them  very  well  personally; 
find  them  enormously  interesting;  have  got  a  good  deal 
of  training  from  them;  and,  in  short,  intend  to  stay  here, 
and  be  one  of  the  glories  of  literature.  What  is  this  tom 
fool  story  about  my  objecting  to  Mansfield's  Bluntschli? 
('Arms  and  the  Man.')  I  never  saw  it — never  objected 
to  it.  All  these  Mansfield  stories  are  fudge.  They  are 
not  exaggerations;  quite  the  contrary.  Richard's  repu 
tation  is  a  feeble,  vulgar,  blundering  attempt  to  suggest 
an  outrageous  but  actual  truth.  But  we  are  on  excellent 
terms.  He  tells  me  that  the  American  public  will  not 
stand  me — that  'The  Devil's  Disciple'  was  played  by 


272  STEEPLEJACK 


him  to  empty  houses  out  of  sheer  devotion  to  art.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  call  him  Pompey  and  revile  him  as  an 
obsolete  barnstormer  because  he  funked  Caesar,  and  would 
not  even  condescend  to  notice  my  alternative  offer  to 
let  him  play  the  waiter  in  'You  Never  Can  Tell/  But 
these  passages  leave  no  bad  blood,  because  I  have  in 
my  desk  the  returns  showing  that  the  American  public 
spent  about  $150,000  to  gloat  over  his  Richard  Dudgeon; 
and  he  considers  'Cassar  and  Cleopatra'  an  imbecile  bur 
lesque.  So  we  both  remain,  each  perfectly  pleased  with 
himself,  and  perfectly  friendly.  Who  is  Arnold  Daly? 
Is  he  anything  to  the  late  Augustin?  Talking  of  Augus- 
tin,  Miss  Marbury  showed  Ada  Rehan  'Captain  Brass- 
bound's  Conversion,'  thinking  she  would  jump  at  such 
a  part  as  Lady  Cicely.  But  alas !  Ada  shared  opinion 
that  Brassbound  is  rot — could  see  no  point  in  it  at  all. 
Does  not  this  make  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  This  is 
a  Christmas-holiday  letter,  hence  its  length.  I  spend  the 
whole  slack  holiday  time  in  a  mad  race  to  get  abreast  of 
my  correspondence.  Yours  ever,  G.  Bernard  Shaw/' 
Note:  As  to  the  "sexlessness  of  the  American  woman," 
some  disgruntled  males  over  here  believe  that  female 
suffrage  is  the  logical  outcome  of  oversexed  women. 

How  long  ago  seems  1904!  Mansfield  gone,  charm 
ing  Ada  Rehan  gone,  Arnold  Daly — "nothing"  to  the  late 
Augustin — grown  up,  having  made  his  reputation  in 
Shaw  comedies,  Forbes-Robertson,  with  Mrs.  Robert 
son  in  "Caesar  and  Cleopatra";  Grace  George  in  "Cap 
tain  Brassbound's  Conversion" —Mr.  Shaw  must  sigh 
for  new  actors  to  conquer.  He  called  me  an  "inconti 
nent  naive  sort  of  big  baby"  —this  nearly  fifteen  years 
ago — adding  apropos  of  that  quotation  about  Candida: 


HIS   LETTERS  273 


"  I  know  the  risk  I  ran,  and  even  foresaw  as  an  agreeable 
possibility  that  you  would  blurt  the  thing  out  and  give 
me  a  chance  to  lecture  you."  No !  George  didn't  set  a 
trap  for  me  with  his  smooth  phrase  "at  your  discretion," 
did  he?  And  he  didn't  wish  me  to  print  it,  did  he,  so 
that  he  could  contradict  me?  Oh!  No!  Not  to-day, 
baker,  call  to-morrow  with  a  crusty  cottage  ! — as  we  used 
to  say  in  the  dear  old  days  at  Dulwich.  Follows  the  fatal 
paragraph,  the  one  I  quoted  in  Iconoclasts  (in  1905): 

"Dear  Huneker:  Don't  ask  me  conundrums  about  that 
immoral  female  Candida.  Observe  the  entry  of  W.  Bur 
gess:  'You're  not  the  lady  h'used  to  typewrite  for  him.' 
Prossy  is  a  very  highly  selected  young  person  indeed, 
devoted  to  Morell  to  the  extent  of  helping  him  in  the 
kitchen,  but  to  him  the  merest  pet  rabbit,  unable  to  get 
the  smallest  hold  on  him.  Candida  is  as  unscrupulous 
as  Siegfried:  Morell  himself  at  least  sees  that;  that  'no 
law  will  bind  her.'  She  seduces  Eugene  just  exactly  as 
far  as  it  is  worth  her  while  to  seduce  him.  She  is  a 
woman  without  'character'  in  the  conventional  sense. 
Without  brains  and  strength  of  mind  she  would  be  a 
wretched  slattern  and  voluptuary.  She  is  straight  for 
natural  means,  not  for  conventional  ethical  ones.  Noth 
ing  can  be  more  cold-bloodedly  reasonable  than  her  fare 
well  to  Eugene:  'All  very  well,  my  lad;  but  I  don't  quite 
see  myself  at  50  with  a  husband  of  35.'  It's  just  this 
freedom  from  emotional  slop,  this  unerring  wisdom  on 
the  domestic  plane,  that  makes  her  so  completely  mis 
tress  of  the  situation.  Then  consider  the  poet.  She 
makes  a  man  of  him  finally  by  showing  him  his  own 
strength — that  David  must  do  without  poor  Uriah's 
wife.  And  then  she  pitches  in  her  picture  of  the  home, 
the  onions  and  the  tradesmen,  and  the  cosseting  of  big 


274  STEEPLEJACK 


baby  Morell.  The  New  York  hausfrau  thinks  it  a  little 
paradise;  but  the  poet  rises  up  and  says:  'Out,  then, 
into  the  night  with  me' — Tristan's  holy  night.  If  this 
greasy  fool's  paradise  is  happiness,  then  I  give  it  to  you 
with  both  hands;  'life  is  nobler  than  that.'  That  is 
'the  poet's  secret.'  The  young  things  in  front  weep  to 
see  the  poor  boy  going  out  lonely  and  bareheaded  in  the 
cold  night  to  save  the  proprieties  of  New  England  Puri 
tanism;  but  he  is  really  a  god  going  back  to  his  heaven; 
proud,  unspeakably  contemptuous  of  the  'happiness' 
he  envied  in  the  days  of  his  blindness,  clearly  seeing  that 
he  has  higher  business  on  hand  than  Candida.  She  has 
a  little  quaint  intuition  of  the  completeness  of  his  cure; 
she  says,  'he  has  learnt  to  do  without  happiness.' 

"As  I  should  certainly  be  lynched  by  the  infuriated 
Candidamanics  if  this  view  of  the  case  were  made  known, 
I  confide  it  to  your  discretion.  I  tell  it  to  you  because 
it  is  an  interesting  example  of  the  way  a  scene  which 
could  be  conceived  and  written  only  by  transcending 
the  ordinary  notion  of  the  relations  between  the  persons, 
nevertheless  stirs  the  ordinary  emotions  to  a  very  high 
degree,  all  the  more  because  the  language  of  the  poet, 
to  those  who  have  not  the  clue  to  it,  is  mysterious  and 
bewildering,  and,  therefore,  worshipful.  I  divined  it 
myself  before  I  found  out  the  whole  truth  about  it. 

"Blank  is  a  very  decent  fellow;  but  he  persists,  like 
most  intellectuals,  in  dictating  conditions  to  a  world 
which  has  to  organise  itself  in  obedience  to  laws  of  life 
which  he  doesn't  understand  any  more  than  you  or  I. 
Individualism  is  all  very  well  as  a  study  product;  but  that 
is  not  what  is  happening.  Society  is  integrating,  not 
individualising;  and  it  is  better  to  lay  hold  of  what  is 
doing  and  make  the  best  of  it  than  to  sit  complaining 


HIS   LETTERS  275 


that  it  won't  do  something  else.  Trusts  are  most  excel 
lent  things — as  superior  to  competitive  shopkeeperism 
as  symphonies  are  to  cornet  solos;  but  they  need  more 
careful  scoring  and  longer  rehearsals  and  better  conduct 
ing.  The  only  individualism  worth  looking  at  now  is 
breeding  the  race  and  getting  rid  of  the  promiscuity  and 
profligacy  called  marriage. 

"Is  there  such  a  thing  in  America  as  a  decent  pub 
lisher — one  whom  I  could  trust,  in  reason,  to  sell  my 
books  on  commission  if  I  manufactured  them  myself? 
I  am  tired  of  wasting  time  negotiating  with  fools  who  are 
afraid  to  publish  the  Superman,  and  rogues  who  want  to 
get  too  soft  a  bargain  over  it.  It  is  copyrighted  all 
safely;  but  it  lies  there  dead  whilst  McClures  and 
Harper's  and  the  like  funk  it,  and  others  want  to  grab 
it  forever  and  each.  Yr.  G.,  Bernard  Shaw." 

Thus  Shaw  on  Shaw.  Doubtless  he  changed  his  mind 
many  times  since  1904.  Candida  may  have  become  to 
him  charmless.  She  was  transferred  from  Ibsen's  Lady 
of  the  Sea  with  the  charm  and  poetry  omitted.  Ibsen, 
too,  can  be  charmless,  but  his  small-town  frumps  are  often 
vital,  intense.  Both  Ibsen  and  Nietzsche  were  butchered 
to  make  a  Shavian  holiday.  In  Iconoclasts  .1  have  paid 
my  tribute  to  the  brilliant  gifts  of  Mr.  Shaw,  to  his  in 
vincible  courage,  love  of  his  fellow  beings — for  if  he  chides 
us  it  is  only  to  correct  our  weaknesses — his  detestation 
of  cruelty  and  injustice,  his  splendid  sincerity  and  super 
abundance  of  normal  sense — also  to  his  sublime  capacity 
for  distorting  facts  if  it  suits  his  mood.  With  his  cos- 
mical  intellect  he  should  not  be  a  mere  playwright 
amusing  an  inconstant  public  with  his  profound  japes 
and  jests;  he  should  be  Premier,  Pope,  or  Kaiser.  I 


276  STEEPLEJACK 


proffer  no  apologies  for  quoting  him  so  freely;  indeed,  I 
think  he  should  feel  indebted  to  me  for  my  generous 
spirit.  But  I'm  quite  sure  he  won't.  Yet,  as  I  have  said 
before,  I  have  no  grievance  against  Mr.  Shaw.  He  is, 
or  was,  my  most  distinguished  "enemy."  I  must  add 
that  he  has  most  graciously  given  me  permission  to  re 
print  in  part  the  foregoing  letters. 

The  query  about  a  publisher  was  soon  answered.  I 
went  to  my  old  friend,  Arthur  Brentano,  and  within  a 
week  Mr.  Shaw  was  provided  with  the  best  of  publishers. 
Since  then  all  his  books  and  plays  have  been  handled 
by  this  enterprising  house,  and  I  think  the  unsentimental 
socialist  has  had  no  cause  to  complain  over  the  arrange 
ment.  I  need  hardly  say  that  as  I  am  not  a  "literary 
agent,"  I  was  not  "interested"  in  the  transaction  except 
as  a  friend  of  author  and  publisher.  It  was  another  case 
of  being  "useful"  to  Mr.  Shaw,  and  he  was  duly  grateful. 
I  should  not  have  resurrected  these  memories  if  I  had  not 
been  delving  into  the  past,  as  I  think  it  prudent  to  let 
sleeping  Shavians  lie,  but  when  he  is  naughty  he  has  to 
be  rebuked  even  if  he  is  a  naughty  grandfather,  on  whose 
banner  is  inscribed  the  strange  device:  Equality,  Envy, 
Indigestion.  Ah !  if  you  had  only  come  over  here  years 
ago,  Master,  we  might  have  civilised,  made  something 
out  of  you,  if  only  a  Sachem  in  Tammany  Hall. 


XXX 
A  HALF-HAMLET 

I 

It  is  lucky  for  a  man  that  he  doesn't  marry  his  first 
love;  luckier  for  the  woman.  Some  Russian  has  said — 
Dostoievsky,  I  think — that  man  is  unhappy  because  he 
doesn't  know  he  is  happy.  Most  men  live  in  a  state  of  in 
nocence  till  they  marry.  Then  they  awaken  and  remorse 
sets  in.  Women  don't  believe  this  because  woman  is  as  a 
rule  incapable  of  remorse.  Let  me  relate  the  story  of  my 
most  interesting  sentimental  hesitations;  a  story  in  which 
the  heroine  is  a  half-Hamlet  and  also  plays  the  r6Ie  of  real 
protagonist.  I  was  in  love,  yet  an  onlooker.  But  what 
an  enchantment  of  the  heart  1  It  happened  in  Rome, 
years  ago.  I  was  young,  green  as  a  green  apricot,  and 
overflowing  with  belief  in  woman,  and  a  constitutional 
distrust  of  myself.  That  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

An  October  sun  slanted  its  yellow  glory  from  the  west 
ern  sky  as  I  entered  the  narrow  gate  of  the  Protestant 
cemetery,  which  I  had  achieved  after  a  dusty  walk  from 
my  apartment  at  the  top  of  the  Spanish  Stairs,  by  way 
of  the  Porta  San  Paolo.  I  was  warm  and  craved  repose : 
palms,  pines,  willows,  olives,  aloes,  and  flame-shaped 
cypresses  in  shaded  alleys  promised  a  pleasing  haven. 
It  was  my  favourite  spot.  Summer  afternoons  when 
Rome  was  a  faded  photograph  of  herself  I  would  read, 
sitting  on  the  grassy  mounds  above  the  bones  of  the 
buried.  Keats  and  Shelley  touched  my  imagination 

277 


278  STEEPLEJACK 


here  as  nowhere.  I  had  become  selfish  about  the  place 
and  resented  the  appearance  of  strangers,  odious  tourists 
carrying  red  books,  who  talked  loudly,  whispered,  gig 
gled,  or  stared  condescendingly.  So  sensitive  was  I  that 
invariably  I  questioned  Angelo,  the  smiling  guardian  of 
the  doorway,  as  to  the  number  of  foreign  invaders.  On 
this  occasion  Angelo  held  up  two  fingers.  I  sighed  my 
relief.  A  pair  of  humans  I  could  avoid.  Up  the  gentle 
slope  which  leads  to  the  tombs  of  Shelley  and  Trelawney 
I  slowly  passed.  To  my  annoyance,  I  saw  a  man  and 
woman  before  the  altar  of  the  dead.  The  woman  was 
on  her  knees.  Even  that  appropriate  attitude  did  not 
mollify  me.  They  were  intruders.  I  hurried  down-hill 
and  went  to  the  grave  of  Keats.  There,  at  least,  was 
grief  made  more  classic  by  the  appearance  of  the  Cestius 
pyramid.  But  again  I  was  disappointed,  for  the  appeal 
ing  voices  of  beggar-boys  came  to  me  through  gratings 
in  the  nearest  wall.  I  shook  a  threatening  head  at  these 
importuners  and  strode  away.  It  was  one  of  my  gloomy 
days  when  all  the  poetry  stored  up  in  me  mingled  with  my 
spiritual  spleen  and  caused  dolorous  hours.  I  was  then 
of  a  receptive  temperament  without  an  outlet  for  peri 
odical  crises  of  emotion.  I  would  joke  about  this  con 
dition,  calling  it  a  congestion  of  the  poetic  centres,  yet  I 
was  bitterly  chagrined  when  I  realised  my  inability  to 
relieve  myself  in  creative  verse. 

Suddenly  my  shoulder  was  brushed  and  a  contralto 
voice  asked  a  pardon  in  English.  It  was  the  lady  I 
had  seen  kneeling.  She  was  garbed  in  green  and  carried 
flowers  which  she  placed  on  the  grave  of  Keats,  not  for 
getting  his  beloved  friend,  John  Severn,  who  lies  hard 
by  in  the  ground.  She  again  knelt  and,  her  face  in  her 
ungloved  hands,  she  seemed  more  in  meditation  than 


A  HALF-HAMLET  279 

prayer.  Her  fingers,  pressed  against  her  eyes,  were  thin 
and  white,  yet  suggested  nervous  force.  When  she  re 
moved  them  and  arose  to  rejoin  her  companion,  I  saw 
the  features  of  a  young  woman  which  attracted  because 
of  their  purity  and  intense  expression.  But  I  could  not 
conceive  how  anyone  could  thus  sorrow  after  a  dead 
poet.  I  love  Keats,  revere  his  resting-place,  but  this — 
this  was  something  more  personal.  Perhaps,  I  mused, 
as  I  looked  at  the  woman's  slender  figure,  she  is  some 
sentimental  girl  who  had  especially  visited  Rome  to  stand 
at  the  tomb  of  one  whose  name  is  not  "writ  in  water," 
but  on  imperishable  marble.  For  a  moment  I  was  stirred 
by  the  image  of  the  act,  and  then  felt  a  wave  of  irrita 
tion  mount  within  me.  She  had  reached  her  former 
position  and  I  noticed  that  the  man  with  her  was  big  of 
frame,  expansive  in  his  movements,  and  dressed  like  an 
Englishman  abroad.  At  once  I  instinctively  disliked 
him.  My  nerves  told  me  that  I  was  unstrung,  and  I 
wondered  whether  I  had  made  a  mistake  by  remaining 
in  Rome  all  summer;  the  notion  that  I  was  suffering  from 
a  mild  attack  of  malaria  was  more  grateful  than  the  con 
viction  that  it  was  hypersesthesia.  This  feeling  prompted 
me  to  walk  boldly  towards  the  couple  as  I  lifted  my  hat. 
Otherwise,  why  should  I,  shy  and  slightly  supercilious, 
risk  a  snub  from  strangers?  They  cordially  received  me, 
and  the  man  said  in  a  booming  bass  voice:  "Really,  it's 
joyous  to  meet  a  countryman  in  this  lonely  cemetery. 
I  was  telling  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary—  "But,  Lewis,  how 
do  you  know  the  gentleman  is  English?"  interposed  the 
lady.  I  made  a  nervous  gesture  of  dissent.  "I  am  an 
American,  but  I  adore  your  poets."  She  glanced  her 
gratitude  and  would  have  spoken  but  for  the  jarring 
laughter  of  her  husband.  "After  this,"  he  effusively 


28o  STEEPLEJACK 


exclaimed,  "  I'll  never  go  by  clothes.     At  all  events,  you 
have  an  English  tailor." 

Annoyed,  I  bowed,  yet  without  the  acrid  feeling  I  had 
smothered  a  few  moments  before;  so  sudden  was  the  revo 
lution  of  my  mood.  Bearded,  imposing  in  girth,  with  the 
head  of  a  fighter,  of  a  master  of  enterprises,  Saint-Hilary 
had  made  an  immediate  impression.  Either  one  liked 
him  or  got  out  of  his  pathway.  He  was  given  to  elbowing 
his  way  through  the  crowds  of  life — and  I  realised  the 
animal  force  and  attractiveness  of  this  new  acquaintance. 
Presently  I  was  engaged  in  analysing  the  charm  of  Mrs. 
Saint-Hilary.  She  was  one  of  those  rare  women  whose 
air  is  captivating  in  its  candour.  I  set  her  down  as  a 
poet — and  then  I  remembered  in  a  flash.  Of  course ! 
She  was  the  wife  of  the  robust  correspondent  of  a  promi 
nent  English  newspaper.  I  smiled.  "I  think  we  ought 
to  know  each  other,"  I  ventured.  "There  is  at  least  one 
drawing-room  in  Rome  where  we  may  meet  some  day." 
The  girl  clasped  her  hands,  crying:  "I  knew  it.  The 
Bernervilles.  And  you  are  James  Huneker  who  reads 
poetry  on  the  tombs  of  Keats  and  Shelley  and  transposes 
their  poetry  to  the  key  of  Schumann  and  Chopin.  What 
did  I  say,  Lewis?  What  did  I  say?"  She  was  all  en 
thusiasm,  and  my  perplexity  increased  as  I  recalled  her 
earlier  elegiac  expression.  The  nonsense  about  Shelley 
and  Chopin !  Mrs.  Bernerville  must  have  been  in  one 
of  her  exaggerated  gossipy  moods.  The  husband  took 
my  hand.  "I  liked  you  from  the  first.  Old  Bernerville 
told  me  about  you.  You  are  very  solid  over  there." 
He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  Rome.  "Yes,  I  some 
times  read  here,  oftener  dream  my  afternoons  away.  In 
fine,  I'm  a  dilettante,  and  that's  why  I  love  Rome — of 


A  HALF-HAMLET  281 

all  cities  it  is  the  one  where  you  can  be  the  laziest  with 
most  dignity." 

We  talked  of  our  friends,  of  our  preferences  in  art  and 
literature,  of  our  beloved  poets.  Saint-Hilary  proposed 
departing.  "We  live  up  in  the  Ludovisi  Quarter,  on  the 
Via  Sallustiana,  and  darkness  soon  comes  these  autumn 
days.  Let  us  walk  as  far  as  the  Porta  San  Paolo  and 
take  &  carriage  there."  "And  I  am  at  the  Trinita  de' 
Monti."  "Our  neighbour,  practically,"  said  the  Eng 
lishman.  "Come,  we  must  be  going,  Dottie."  I  felt 
resentful.  Dottie !  What  a  name !  And  how  little 
suited  to  her  spiritual  personality  was  her  good-natured, 
tiresome  husband.  In  the  carriage  facing  Mrs.  Saint- 
Hilary,  I  studied  her  face.  Her  eyes  reflected  the  slaty 
grey-green  of  the  sky.  For  me  she  was  like  a  harp  that 
vibrated,  yet  had  never  sounded  the  eternal  music  within 
her. 

II 

When  a  young  man  wishes  to  resolve  the  enigma  of  a 
strange  woman,  to  evoke  her  submerged  music,  he  is 
likely  to  push  his  curiosity  beyond  its  province,  his  virtu 
osity  beyond  its  power.  I  remembered  this  as  I  slowly 
walked  along  the  Via  Sistina.  The  weather  was  chilly, 
one  of  those  damp  evenings  in  which  sounds  a  cheerless 
autumn,  the  leading-motive  of  a  rapidly  approaching 
winter.  I  did  not  feel  in  a  resilient  humour;  if  at  that 
precise  minute  I  could  have  avoided  visiting  the  Berner- 
villes,  I  should  have  been  almost  content.  I  knew  that 
the  Saint-Hilarys  were  to  be  there.  Mrs.  Bernerville 
had  written  me  a  brief,  breathless  note  full  of  underlined 
adjectives  and  enthusiastic  gasps.  O  what  an  impres 
sion  I  had  made  on  her  dear  friends !  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary 


282  STEEPLEJACK 

had  not  minced  her  words — I  looked  like  an  artist — 
while  her  husband,  dear,  old,  bluff  Saint-Hilary — a  rough 
diamond  and  a  man  of  importance  in  the  literary  world 
—he,  too,  likes  you;  a  good  fellow,  he  calls  you,  very 
different  from  the  average  critic !  I  sniffed.  She  was 
impossibly  delightful,  cette  dame !  Why  had  I  given  her 
my  books?  I  reddened  at  the  ascription  "average 
critic."  What  impertinence  !  What  a  patronising  tone  ! 
I  regretted  my  promise.  I  loathed  strange  people.  For 
me  success  in  life  meant  avoiding  new  faces.  Even  the 
memory  of  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary's  face,  vaguely  silhouetted 
in  the  twilight,  did  not  touch  me.  Her  mystery  evap 
orated  in  the  flabby  phrases  of  Mrs.  Bernerville;  besides, 
the  Bernervilles  were  too  rich;  the  possession  of  much 
money  results  in  grossness.  I  had  reached  the  Piazza 
Barbarina  and  its  rococo  Bernini  Tritons.  Soon  I  was 
shaking  hands  with  my  hostess,  wondering  why  I  had 
come. 

"It's  good  to  see  you"  were  her  welcoming  words. 
"I've  asked  no  one  but  the  Saint-Hilarys.  Bernerville 
expects  his  old  pirate,  as  he  calls  him,  the  Prince  Abbazia" 
— that  stupid  old  bore,  I  thought — "but  let  us  go  to  the 
fire.  What  disagreeable  nights  we  are  getting.  I  recall 
Rome  when  its  Octobers  were  like  the  Mays  of  Florence." 
Mrs.  Bernerville  was  in  the  fading  fifties,  small,  alert, 
her  face  like  a  wizened  pear.  She  said  she  was  from 
Boston,  but  in  moments  of  mockery  her  husband  would 
mention  the  name  of  a  small  Western  town  as  her  birth 
place.  She  always  endured  this  sarcasm  with  placid 
humour;  under  the  severest  strain  her  temper  always 
was  admirable.  Dressed  in  black  lace,  wearing  a  collar 
of  black  pearls,  she  appeared  to  me  a  richly  evolved 
beetle,  including  its  celerity — she  would  circle  about  a 


A  HALF-HAMLET  283 

room,  about  her  husband,  or  a  victim  with  an  accompany 
ing  loquacity  that  compelled  rather  than  charmed.  The 
Salon  was  empty,  save  for  our  presence.  Sitting  opposite 
the  fireplace  I  forgot  my  irritability  as  I  listened  to  her 
budget  of  gossip  about  people  we  knew.  I  longed  to  put 
a  few  questions  concerning  the  Saint-Hilarys.  Who  was 
the  wife?  Had  they  been  married  many  years?  But 
my  companion  pursued  a  zigzag  monologue  in  which  she 
exposed  with  touching  innocence  the  troubles  of  Count 
O'Ragan  and  his  pretty  spouse.  She  had  her  own  theory 
concerning  the  course  of  this  unfortunate  marital  squab 
ble — it  was  not  altogether  the  fault  of  the  Count  and  his 
passion  for  gambling.  Oh !  no.  If  she  dared — why, 
yes,  certainly  the  Saint-Hilarys  were  happy.  Whoever 
doubted  it,  Dottie  is  Irish,  her  husband,  need  one  ask, 
English.  He  is  a  trump,  his  wife  a  bit  of  humbug. 

Dottie  a  humbug !  For  me  such  familiarity  bred  frost. 
"And,"  continued  Mrs.  Bernerville,  "she  is  a  poet,  like 
yourself."  I  raised  deprecating  hands.  "Dear  lady,  I 
am  not  a  poet — only  a  dreamer.  Pray  do  not  say  any 
more  about  my  books.  My  poetry  goes  into  the  waste- 
basket.  After  all  the  praises  you  have  heaped  on  my 
ineffectual  head,  I  fear  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary  will  find  me  a 
sad  disappointment."  "Praise!  I!  Why  I  really  told 
her  you  were  an  inarticulate  Milton,  or  was  it  Browning? 
If  you  would  only  fall  in  love  and  be  jilted,  you  might 
possibly  overwhelm  us  with  a  masterpiece.  But  don't  fall 
in  love  with  our  Dottie — it  would  be  a  waste  of  time. 
Ah  !  there  you  are,  Bernerville."  Glad  of  the  interruption, 
I  cordially  greeted  the  old  man.  The  Miltonic  allusion 
had  put  my  politeness  to  the  straining  test.  Oh !  for  a 
vast  wilderness  from  which  the  tactless  would  be  forever 
barred. 

"How  axe  you  feeling,  young  man?     Why  don't  we 


284  STEEPLEJACK 

see  you  oftener?  If  I'm  not  in,  there's  the  Madame, 
who  can  discourse  Shakespeare  and  the  musical  glasses. 
And  then  don't  forget,  I  have  some  wonderful  Burgundy 
in  my  cellar.  What  you  miss!"  The  short,  apoplectic 
Bernerville,  with  his  brilliant,  Oriental  eyes,  his  whee 
dling  red  lips,  and  old-fashioned  side-whiskers  looked  more 
like  a  Wall  Street  banker  than  an  American  who  had  lived 
in  Italy  thirty  years.  "Oh!  let's  talk  of  music,"  impa 
tiently  broke  in  his  wife.  "We  were  talking  of  Sgambati 
and  Liszt."  I  closed  my  eyes  resignedly.  I  was  accus 
tomed  to  her  foreshortenings  of  the  truth.  She  would 
talk  of  Sgambati,  with  whom  she  had  studied  ten  or 
twenty  years  earlier,  and  of  Liszt  and  the  Princess  Sayn- 
Wittgenstein,  before  the  end  of  the  evening.  It  was  one 
of  my  particular  tortures  to  hear  from  her  rapidly  mov 
ing  lips  the  secret  reason  why  Cardinal  Antonelli  had  in 
terfered  with  the  projected  marriage  of  Liszt.  She  even 
insinuated  that  Liszt  had  asked  the  Cardinal  to  refuse 
his  consent,  as  the  pianist-composer  wished  somehow  to 
wriggle  out  of  his  promise  to  marry  that  formidable 
bluestocking,  the  Princess.  I  had  been  retold  that  in 
cident  at  least  a  hundred  times. 

"I  say,  where  are  our  guests?  It's  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
No  Saint-Hilary,  no  Dottie,  the  passionate  pilgrim,  no 
Abbazia  !  I  wonder  where  that  old  pirate  is  ?"  Berner 
ville  held  his  wrath  in  his  pudgy  white  hand  and  wickedly 
smiled.  His  friends  often  boasted  that  he  could  shatter 
any  reputation  with  a  gleam  of  his  shining  teeth.  The 
sound  of  a  remote  door  closing,  then  approaching  foot 
steps — it  must  be  the  Saint-Hilarys.  Unannounced  they 
entered,  the  lady  on  gliding  feet,  Saint-Hilary  following 
with  his  amiable  shuffle.  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary  did  not  seem 


A  HALF-HAMLET  285 

too  cordial,  while  her  husband  with  his  air  of  false  bon 
homie  was  intolerable.  These  people,  who  had  been  so 
desirable  the  other  day,  at  close  range  were  average  folk. 
With  pessimistic  fancy  I  immediately  saw  everything 
drab.  She  had  not  removed  her  wraps  in  the  anteroom — 
she  was  a  privileged  person;  there  was  a  touch  of  fur  on 
her  shoulders,  and  the  round  Astrakhan  hat  on  her 
shapely  head  gave  her  an  exotic  air.  A  Russian  princess 
fresh  from  the  Neva,  a  driver  of  snow-sledge  and  rein 
deers  !  I  saw  the  light  from  the  blazing  logs  reverberate 
from  the  deep  grey  eyes.  Then  she  went  into  the  apart 
ment  of  Mrs.  Bernerville,  and  I  wondered  why  such  a 
trivial  happening  as  the  reflection  of  fire  in  a  woman's 
eyes,  sweet-cupped  and  dark-lashed,  should  so  trouble 
my  soul. 

"Come  into  the  den  and  have  something  decent  before 
you  begin  to  slop  tea,"  growled  Bernerville  to  the  two 
men.  "I  will  that,"  was  the  ready  response  of  Saint- 
Hilary.  I  shook  my  head.  I  preferred  staring  into  the 
flame,  hoping  that  it  might  evoke  her  glance.  As  the 
ladies  returned,  the  expected  Prince  arrived.  He  stiffly 
bowed  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  smoking-room. 
Mrs.  Bernerville  laughed.  "We  will  excuse  you,  Ab- 
bazia.  They  are  in  there."  "I'm  thirsty,"  he  curtly 
replied  and  disappeared.  "Bernerville  has  odd  cronies, 
hasn't  he?"  asked  his  wife.  "You've  been  coming  to 
this  house  for  years.  Tell  me,  have  you  ever  met  an 
intimate  of  my  husband's  you  could  converse  with  over 
a  minute?"  I  replied:  "Frankly,  no."  "Have  you 
written  much?"  asked,  in  her  modulated  tones,  Mrs. 
Saint-Hilary.  I  forgave  her  the  brusqueness  of  her 
salutation.  At  one  swift  leap  all  my  early  interest  re 
vived.  It  was  her  voice  that  held  me;  it  was  as  tender 


286  STEEPLEJACK 

as  the  green  of  newly  put  forth  leaves.  "You  are  a 
poet,"  she  gaily  asserted;  "what  image  held  your  tongue 
in  check  then?  Come,  give  us  the  fresh  vintage  of  your 
fancy."  Her  husband  away,  she  fairly  warmed.  0  the 
Celt  in  her  eyes  and  their  melancholy  setting !  I  stam 
mered.  My  conceit  deserted  me.  An  inward  necessity 
bade  me  keep  silent,  though  I  longed  to  respond  in  lyric 
phrase.  The  first  man  who  compared  a  woman  with  a 
rose  was  a  poet,  Voltaire  averred,  but  the  second  a  fool. 
So  I  did  what  infatuated  poets  have  done  before  me — I 
kept  my  peace  and  drank  my  tea  hot.  Not  only  did  I 
feel  like  a  fool,  I  know  I  acted  one.  The  two  women 
chatted  over  their  work.  Mrs.  Bernerville  politely  in 
quired  if  Mr.  Saint-Hilary  would  soon  finish  his  book  on 
Celtic  Antiquities.  "He  is  a  desperately  lazy  man,  my 
husband,  notwithstanding  his  bigness.  He  thinks  he 
has  laboured  like  a  galley-slave  when  he  has  finished  his 
daily  stint  for  his  newspaper.  Aren't  men  naturally 
slothful?"  She  turned  to  me.  "I  am,  if  I  may  reason 
from  the  general  to  the  particular?"  "Yes,  but  you  are 
a  poet."  "I  am  not.  I  love  poetry  as  much  as  music, 
but  I  never  write  it."  "You  know  what  dear  Mrs. 
Bernerville  says  of  you?"  "That  I'm  an  inarticulate — " 
I  flushed.  "I  don't  believe  it.  You  will  write  when 
the  time  comes.  Some  friendly  soul  should  stir  you." 
"Ah,  but  where  is  she?"  My  tone  was  so  mocking  that 
the  two  women  rallied  me.  The  elder  vivaciously  ex 
claimed:  "If  you  are  going  to  talk  like  that,  I'll  leave  you 
alone  and  go  see  what  mischief  those  men  are  up  to. 
Esthetics  bore  me."  She  scampered  away. 

The    silence    endured    several    minutes.     Mrs.    Saint- 
Hilary  went  to  the  fire.     Her  eyes  were  dark,  her  face 


A  HALF-HAMLET  287 

flushed — I  thought  I  detected  a  certain  fatigue  in  them; 
the  face  with  its  decidedly  irregular  profile  was  without 
distinction  at  this  moment.  Perhaps  she  was  not  so 
happy  as  her  friends  believed.  She  spoke:  "I  think  I 
recognise  in  you  a  trait  of  our  time.  Every  generation 
produces  its  share  of  souls — disillusioned.  All  sorts  of  in 
genious,  also  silly,  theories  are  put  forth  to  explain  those 
souls.  Some  say  decadent."  "Poor,  overworked  word," 
I  hazarded.  "True,  but  handy  for  the  phrase-makers." 
I  interrupted:  "Candidly,  I  can't  complain  of  my  health. 
And  if  I've  published  no  verse,  that's  no  reason  why  you 
should  suspect  me  as  a  pessimist."  "You  are  not  a 
pessimist,"  she  gravely  said.  "You  might  be  summed 
up  as  a  half-Hamlet — one  who  dares  not — but  may."  I 
was  flattered,  and  wondered  with  the  fatuity  of  youth 
why  she  took  so  much  interest  in  my  case.  She  read 
my  mood.  Then,  with  a  burst  of  gaiety:  "Now  don't 
let  us  become  morbid  discussing  your  hidden  ambitions. 
I  know  your  sort" — "Saint-Hilary?"  "Good  heavens! 
He  is  a  steam-engine.  And  what  a  gift  of  expression." 
She  paused,  and  lightly  adjusting  with  her  slim  fingers 
an  ornament  in  her  hair,  she  rapidly  moved  around  the 
dimly  lighted  room.  I  followed  her  with  my  eyes,  my 
envy  of  her  husband  revived  by  her  warm  praise.  Yet  a 
few  moments  before  she  had  called  him  lazy.  Logic 
from  such  a  temperament!  "You  are  very  Celtic,"  I 
declared,  "very !  You  ascribe  to  me  a  Hamletic  quality; 
half-Hamlet,  I  think  you  ironically  remarked,  but  I 
am  an  observer  enough  to  ask  you  whether  among  your 
own  sex  there  are  not  half-Hamlets,  quarter-Hamlets. 
You  have  known  so  many  among  mine?"  She  smiled. 
"There  speaks  the  wounded  vanity  of  the  man,  of  the 
poet.  You  remember  what  Heine  said  about  man  being 


288  STEEPLEJACK 

the  vainest  animal,  and  the  poet  the  vainest  among 
men?"  'Yes,  but  you  haven't  answered  my  question. 
Are  you,  too,  a  half-Hamlet?"  "Alas,  to  be  a  woman 
with  a  nomad's  heart  in  me,"  she  quoted.  "Do  you  know 
who  sang  that?  Dora  Sigerson,  loveliest  of  Neo-Irish 
poets.  I,  a  feminine  half-Hamlet?  Never!  I'm  a 
nomad.  I  must  wander  or  suffocate.  I  hate  the  stuffy 
life  of  my  sex.  The  indoor  sex,  I  have  named  it.  Oh ! 
if  I  had  been  born  a  man — a  man.  The  history  of  heroes 
is  the  history  of  youth.  That's  Disraeli."  "What 
would  you  do  if  you  were  a  man?"  I  eagerly  questioned. 
"Make  love  to  pretty  women,  like  all  of  them?"  "Pouf ! 
Is  that  the  only  ideal  of  man?  No,  I  should  write  great 
poems."  Her  voice,  usually  muffled  in  timbre,  rang  out: 
"Where  is  the  nomad  you  spoke  of  a  moment  ago?  To 
be  a  poet  means  charming  one's  spirit  to  the  ink-well." 
"To  live  my  poems,  of  course."  She  was  almost  pettish. 
Then  with  a  gust  of  laughter  Saint-Hilary  entered, 
followed  by  the  others.  His  face  was  red  and  his  enor 
mous  frame  slightly  swayed.  Evidently  Bernerville  had 
something  stronger  than  Burgundy.  "Ah!  there  you 
are  again,  my  boy."  (He  sees  two  of  me,  I  muttered.) 
"And  no  doubt  entertaining  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary.  I  sup 
pose  you  swapped  verses.  She  is  a  poet,  you  know. 
Now,  Dottie,  put  on  your  singing-robes  and  say  some 
thing  nice  in  your  sweet  Irish  voice.  Recite  one  of  your 
own  poems,  girlie."  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary  coldly  looked  at 
him  but  did  not  reply.  The  giant  went  to  her,  sliding 
across  the  highly  polished  floor,  and  laughingly  took  her 
by  the  wrists.  Everyone  was  amused  at  his  persistence 
except  myself.  The  party  broke  up.  Saint-Hilary,  his 
high  spirits  slain  by  the  disdainful  countenance  of  his 
wife,  bade  the  Bernervilles  a  glum  good-by,  and  the 


A  HALF-HAMLET  289 

Prince  was  helped  down-stairs  to  his  carriage  by  polite 
servants.  Mrs.  Bernerville  wasn't  shocked,  whispering 
that  it  was  his  regular  evening  performance.  Suave  and 
mysterious  Bernerville  was  fresher  than  all  of  us.  I 
slipped  away.  What  people  !  What  a  misspent  night ! 
And  Mrs.  Bernerville  had  not  failed  to  drop  a  last  depre 
catory  word  about  Dorothea  Saint-Hilary.  I  slowly 
went  home  by  a  familiar  route.  In  my  chambers  I 
found  a  fire,  dressing-gown,  a  supply  of  tobacco, 
and  a  decanter  of  sherry  carefully  arranged  by  the 
housekeeper.  "Now,"  I  ejaculated,  "is  the  time  to 
enjoy  myself."  I  made  myself  comfortable,  and  getting 
pen  and  paper  I  proceeded  to  manufacture  an  inventory 
of  my  platonic  soul,  a  practice  I  never  omitted  before  re 
tiring.  Many  ideas  crossed  my  mind.  She  had  said 
some  memorable  things.  Why  did  she  manifest  such 
interest?  And  the  husband  !  Happy  with  such  a  man? 
Au  grand  jamais !  I  looked  behind  me  in  the  shadows. 
Despite  my  agnosticism,  I  experience  "mystic  fear" 
when  alone  after  midnight.  What  joy  in  the  reaches  of 
the  gloomy  hour  when  the  vitality  is  at  its  lowest  ebb, 
and  the  hobgoblins  of  conscience  are  stirring,  to  have  the 
image  of  a  sympathetic  companion  beside  you.  De 
cidedly  some  men  don't  deserve  their  happiness.  And 
lighting  a  cigar  I  resolutely  began  to  rewrite  the  eleventh 
line  of  an  original  sonnet  in  French. 


Ill 

Early  the  second  morning  I  went  out.  I  had  not  left 
my  rooms  since  my  return  from  the  Bernervilles.  The 
success  of  my  sonnet — I  had  finished  the  remaining  lines 
before  I  went  to  bed — gave  my  muse  a  boost.  In  one 


29o  STEEPLEJACK 


evening  I  had  actually  written  three  sonnets,  the  work 
manship  of  which  was  not  indifferent;  already  buzzed  in 
my  head  the  scheme  of  a  sonnet-sequence.  But  the 
sharp,  glorious  blue  of  the  sky  that  saluted  me  this  second 
morning  speedily  drove  rhyming  from  my  thoughts. 
Hastily  swallowing  my  coffee,  I  was  soon  striding  through 
a  leafy  avenue  of  the  Pincio  garden,  wondering  whether 
life  was  not,  after  all,  worth  while.  The  sweep  of  the 
picture,  Rome  beneath,  the  misty  dream  of  a  poet,  spurred 
my  nerves  from  their  languor.  I  traversed  the  outer 
path  of  the  garden  as  far  as  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  and 
was  hesitating  when  a  hand  was  placed  on  my  arm. 
"Good  morning,  Sir  Poet."  "Mrs.  Saint-Hilary  !  What 
luck !  Only  a  moment  ago  I  was  thinking  of  you." 
"  What  a  fib !  Your  eye  is  too  clear  for  a  man  that  has 
been  indulging  in  retrospection.  No  !  No  !  You  thought 
what  a  wonderful  morning  it  is.  You  said  to  yourself 
you  were  glad  to  be  alive."  :<You  read  my  mind  like  a 
gypsy — like  the  gypsy  you  are!"  "I  feel  like  a  gypsy 
this  morning.  And  you?"  "Not  like  a  half-Hamlet." 
"Ah!  That  phrase  sticks."  "It  doesn't  fit.  I'm  for 
action.  Let's  walk  over  Rome."  "Merci!  I  have  a 
breakfast  engagement  with  Mr.  Saint-Hilary."  I  must 
have  looked  so  displeased  that  she  smiled  one  of  her 
smiles  of  half-pity.  I  winced.  I  was  a  mild  mark  for 
her  wit.  What  did  she  think  of  me?  And  to  betray 
my  jealousy  like  a  raw  boy  fresh  from  school !  I  stiffened 
my  spine.  The  crisp  sunshine  painted  her  as  a  most 
desirable  picture.  "If  we  are  to  be  friends,"  she  soberly 
suggested,  "let  us  not  mind  the  pebbles  in  our  own 
shoes.  Because  you  feel  like  a  freed  balloon  to-day,  you 
fancy  that  the  cityful  should  rejoice  with  your  joy. 
How  like  a  poet.  What  if  I  told  you  that  I  came  out  here 


A  HALF-HAMLET  291 

to  be  alone,  so  utterly  miserable  am  I.  What  would  you 
say?"  "That  I  don't  believe  it,  my  dear  Mrs.  Saint- 
Hilary.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  my  selfishness.  I  feel 
well  this  morning,  and,  manlike,  I  wish  you  to  feel  the 


same." 


Then  in  tremulous  anticipation  I  gazed  at  her.  What 
had  operated  on  my  spirits  to  liberate  such  emotions? 
Compared  with  this  minute,  my  life  had  been  a-slumber- 
ing.  To  my  scrutiny  she  seemed  more  buoyant  than  the 
other  night  at  the  Bernervilles.  I  endeavoured  to  grasp 
the  secret  of  her  fleeting  expression;  but  her  eyes  were 
the  guardians  of  mute  treasures,  they  had  no  message  for 
me.  I  suppressed  my  eagerness.  I  determined  not  to 
be  cajoled  into  self-betrayal.  We  walked  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  Villa  Medici.  We  did  not  enter;  instead, 
turned  into  a  road  that  follows  the  curves  of  the  bridle 
path,  and  if  we  did  not  speak,  our  brains  were  busy  build 
ing — what?  I  don't  know.  So  little  had  happened  to 
me,  so  little  of  value,  that  I  could  not  help  pondering 
the  possibilities  of  my  companion's  career.  There  was  she 
walking,  almost  touching  me,  and  I  knew  no  more  about 
her  soul  than  if  she  hailed  from  a  neighbouring  planet. 
I  had  grown  to  distrust  my  early  belief  that  women  were 
easy  to  read  because  of  their  being  more  instinctive  than 
men,  and  therefore  wore  their  hearts  exposed.  But  no 
one  is  easy  to  read,  men  no  more  than  women.  Each 
human  is  an  isolated  complex  of  organs.  The  greatest 
readers  of  the  human  heart  are  those  who  more  fully 
than  others  interpret  themselves.  Humility  itself  in  the 
presence  of  my  new  friend,  I  asked  myself  whether  I 
could  seal  my  lips  so  effectually  that  she  might  seek  in 
vain  for  my  secret.  I  firmly  believed  it  to  be  a  secret. 
Suddenly  I  spoke:  "Let  us  talk  of  your  Celtic  poets.  I 


292  STEEPLEJACK 

read  them.  I  love  but  I  can't  always  understand  them." 
She  turned  moist  eyes  towards  me.  She  moved  my  heart 
like  the  faint  sound  of  nocturnal  fountains.  "Ireland  is 
all  my  life.  When  I'm  there,  I'm  unhappy.  That's 
because  I'm  Irish.  But  when  I'm  away,  I'm  unhappy, 
and  that  is  Irish,  too."  Everything  about  her  seemed 
to  live;  the  flower  in  her  hair  was  faded  in  comparison 
with  the  sparkle  in  her  flower-like  eyes.  Her  smile  was 
as  tricksy  as  the  new  moon  seen  through  flying  cloud-scud. 

I  was  delighted.  I  had  come  out  with  an  unusual 
fund  of  good  humour,  and  here  I  was  expending  it  upon 
my  companion.  I  hardly  thought  of  myself.  Truly  a 
novel,  refreshing  experience  for  an  egotist.  She  was 
conscious  that  she  puzzled  me,  for  she  stopped  and  in 
her  cheerful  every-day  voice  commanded:  "About  face! 
march!"  My  heart  beat  heavily;  though  it  was  mid 
day  and  the  sun  blazing  hot  for  October,  the  air  seemed 
cooler.  Obeying,  I  kept  in  rhythm  with  her  impetuous 
gait.  We  soon  passed  out  before  the  Piazzo  Margherita. 
She  signalled  a  negative.  Then,  at  last,  to  the  Piazza 
Barberini?  No  !  She  would  say  good-by  at  the  church. 
I  looked  at  her  so  earnestly  that  she  coloured.  Nothing 
was  said  about  a  future  meeting.  I  became  doleful. 
"Ah!  half-Hamlet,"  she  teasingly  protested.  And  she 
quickly  walked  along  the  Via  Sistina.  "Celt!"  I  cried, 
as  I  watched  her  graceful,  swaying  figure.  I  then  went 
indoors,  drank  tea,  and  smoked  till  dinner-time.  Oh  !  if 
only  I  had  the  courage  at  the  moment  when  most  needed. 
To  be  a  thunderbolt  in  action — that  was  my  unrealised 
ambition.  But  a  half-Hamlet ! 


A  HALF-HAMLET  293 


IV 

That  night  at  the  Teatro  Costanzi  I  saw  a  play  by 
D'Annunzio,  a  violent  tragedy  related  in  the  golden  voice 
of  the  poet,  but  not  akin  to  my  mood.  I  wished  myself 
far  away  from  this  huge  theatre,  sonorous  with  applause. 
I  left  before  the  culminating  act  and  paced  the  streets. 
The  moon  had  blotted  out  the  stars  and,  like  a  silver- 
white  pyx,  swung  in  the  firmament;  there  was  a  cloud- 
shine  on  the  fleecy  boulders  that  nimbly  accompanied  it 
through  the  blue.  This  sky  incited  me  to  vague  hero 
isms,  yet  I  was  more  curious  about  the  look  of  Rome  in 
the  moon-rays — so  ingrained  my  romantic  imagination. 
It  was  not  long  before  I  turned  off  the  Corso.  The  Piazza 
de  Spagna  was  deserted;  not  even  a  carriage  disturbed 
its  august  emptiness.  The  moon  transposed  the  trees 
of  the  Pincio  into  ebon  music  and  the  Spanish  Stairs 
were  streaked  with  bars  of  light.  As  I  neared  the  top 
I  discerned  the  figure  of  a  woman,  closely  hooded,  who 
recklessly  ran  down  the  steps.  If  she  had  not  recoiled 
as  she  passed  me  I  should  not  have  paused  to  look  at 
her.  "Mrs.  Saint-Hilary!"  She  went  on,  taking  two 
steps  at  a  time.  So  swift  was  her  flight  that  instinctively 
I  gazed  above  for  her  pursuer.  I  saw  none.  I  followed 
her,  but  not  far;  the  encounter  had  unnerved  her.  She 
stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps.  I  could  not  distin 
guish  her  features.  I  took  her  hand  and  found  it  icy. 
"Dear,  dear  lady,  what  troubles  you  so?  Are  you  ill?" 
She  did  not  reply.  I  could  feel  that  she  trembled. 
"Let  me  bring  you  home.  You  are  frightened.  I'll 
ask  no  questions.  It  is  not  well  for  you  to  be  out  alone 
at  this  hour/'  I  sought  to  lead  up  the  stairs.  She 
snatched  her  hand  from  mine.  "No,  no,  not  that  way! 


294  STEEPLEJACK 

Good  God — not  home!"  I  was  appalled  by  the  ex 
travagant  misery  of  her  tone.  Here  was  the  last  act  of 
the  drama  I  had  not  sat  out,  and  one  infinitely  more 
poignant  than  the  fiction  of  the  Italian  poet.  Without 
artifice  was  the  soul  of  the  woman  bared  to  me.  I  was 
dumb  with  the  horror  of  my  imagining.  What  else  could 
have  driven  this  gentle  creature  out  on  the  streets  of  a 
strange  city — what  else  but — !  I  ground  my  teeth  in 
rage.  My  phlegmatic  ego  dissolved  in  the  fire  of  her 
sorrow.  Like  a  flash  it  came  upon  me.  I  loved  her.  I 
had  loved  her  from  the  first.  And  she  had  been  driven 
from  her  husband  by  reason  of  some  nameless  outrage 
at  his  hands.  Brute !  I  uttered  a  hoarse  cry  and  gripped 
her.  "Come,"  I  whispered.  "Come.  I'll  not  trouble 
you  with  a  single  question.  I  understand  everything. 
Come  with  me — up  the  stairs.  There  is  refuge  for  you 
at  the  hotel.  I'll  not  worry  you  with  my  company." 
She  regarded  me  with  blank  eyes — I  caught  their  inter 
mittent  glint.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  toneless. 
"I'll  go  with  you,  but  you  must  take  me  to  my  home. 
In  the  Ludovisi  Quarter.  You've  brought  me  to  my 
senses.  Don't,  dear  friend,  set  me  down  as  a  mad 
woman.  I  was  crazy.  There  was  provocation.  It's 
past.  I'll  go  back.  Forget  all  about  this  when  we 
part."  I  felt  moonstruck,  my  personality  evaporating. 
This  was  our  farewell,  the  end  of  my  brief  romance. 
She  would  go  back  to  the  man  she  loved  despite  his  bru 
tality.  The  reason  for  this  love !  Whistle  down  the 
wind  for  the  answer.  I  brought  her  to  the  door  of  her 
hotel  and  went  away  without  a  word.  Twice  she  had 
sent  me  from  her — once  playfully  and  now  in  sorrow. 
Celtic  she  was.  She  had  the  cruel  heart  of  the  Celt. 
.  .  .  Was  the  music  in  her  worth  the  hearing? 


A  HALF-HAMLET  295 


My  ill-luck  pursued  me  to  Venice.  When  it  rains  in 
Rome  there  are  the  palaces,  the  picture-galleries,  the 
marbles,  the  churches;  but  at  Venice  the  meeting  of  the 
waters  proves  doubly  monotonous.  The  wet  of  the  canal 
enters  the  soul.  The  drippings  of  the  sky  are  as  the 
eternal  tears  of  the  banished  gods.  In  the  Ducal  Palace 
sombre  dampness  dowers  with  humid  eyes  immemorial 
portraits.  Along  the  waterways  the  wind  howls  as  it 
transfixes  the  wanderer  with  lance-like  thrusts.  I  exe 
crated  life  when  I  stepped  into  the  hotel  gondola  at  the 
station,  and  sat  shivering  and  propelled  through  the 
desolate  darkness  of  narrow  waterways  where  murder 
and  mystery  might  lurk  under  mean,  flickering  gas-jets. 
The  melancholy  challenge  of  my  gondolier  failed  to 
evoke  poetic  visions  of  nocturnal  Venice.  I  was  glad  to 
gain  the  steps  of  my  hotel.  Everyone  was  congealed 
by  the  cold,  everything  saturated  with  the  rain.  I  did 
not  long  remain  in  my  apartment.  Without,  the  storm- 
drums  of  the  Adriatic  were  ruffling;  the  shape  of  the 
gale  was  lost  in  the  wrack  of  spilt  mist. 

At  Bauer-Grunwald's  it  was  cheerful,  the  most  cheer 
ful  cafe  on  the  lagoons.  Crowded  with  tourists,  eating, 
drinking,  smoking,  talking,  the  picture  appealed  to  me 
because  of  its  human  quality.  Nevertheless,  I  was  home 
sick  for  Rome,  for  the  hospitable,  if  tiresome,  Berner- 
villes — the  Madame  with  her  teasing  chatter,  her  hus 
band  with  his  malicious  wit.  Sick,  too,  though  in  another 
way,  for  the  sight  of  a  woman's  face.  .  .  .  "What  an 
ass  I  am !  Very  well,  garcon,  I'll  sit  at  this  table. 
First  give  me  the  wine-card."  I  had  not  immediately 
quitted  Rome  after  that  night.  But  I  avoided  my  friends. 


296  STEEPLEJACK 

I  wished  to  hear  no  gossip.  I  could  surmise  without 
being  boldly  told  that  unhappiness  camped  in  the  house 
hold  of  the  Saint-Hilarys.  After  a  week  the  city  became 
intolerable  and  I  fled  to  Venice — where  it  rained,  where  it 
would  rain  forever.  I  ordered  some  cold  meat,  a  salad, 
a  bottle  of  Bordeaux.  Then,  relieved  of  the  head 
waiter's  presence,  I  looked  about  me.  Yes,  those  visitors 
from  the  world  over  were  practical;  bad  weather  didn't 
daunt  them.  And  then  my  roving  eye  took  in  a  man  who 
sat  smiling  opposite  me.  Affrightedly,  I  clutched  my 
knees.  Was  I  dreaming?  No,  the  vision  was  too  real, 
too  burly,  too  much  of  the  flesh.  His  big  red  fist  ex 
tended,  Saint-Hilary  crossed  the  aisle.  "You  here! 
What  luck !  I  thought  I'd  be  forced  to  put  in  an  inter 
minable  evening  drinking  and  talking  to  the  waiter." 
I  tried  not  to  see  the  offered  hand,  but  I  felt  it  as  it 
squeezed  with  unaffected  vigour  my  thin  fingers.  I 
loathed  the  monster.  I  had  expended  my  nervous  en 
ergy  for  a  week  damning  him,  and  here  he  was — but  why 
in  Venice?  And  alone.  More  ill-luck. 

"I've  been  drinking  a  lot  for  the  last  ten  days,"  Saint- 
Hilary  confessed  in  a  husky  voice.  "You  won't  mind, 
will  you?  You're  a  good  chap;  hard  to  make  out.  I'm 
in  a  heap  of  trouble.  Let  me  bother  you.  I'm  alone. 
Here,  waiter !  Fetch  my  glass  to  this  gentleman's 
table.  Hurry  up!"  The  order  was  given  with  charac 
teristic  energy  as  he  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  me, 
bidding  me  go  ahead  and  eat  my  supper.  "I'll  be  all 
right  soon."  Sick  at  heart,  I  swallowed  the  food,  saw 
dust  and  ashes  to  my  taste.  After  some  wine,  I  plucked 
up  wit  enough  to  ask  Saint-Hilary  what  he  was  doing 
away  from  Rome.  "Doing?  I'll  just  tell  you,  my  boy. 
I'm  up  here  looking  for  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary,  for  my  wife. 


A  HALF-HAMLET  297 

What  are  you  doing  here,  may  I  ask?"  The  question, 
though  put  without  ill-temper,  made  me  pale.  "Why, 
Mr.  Saint-Hilary,  I  only  arrived  an  hour  ago  on  the 
morning  train  from  Rome."  I  stammered,  actually 
feeling  guilty.  "  I  know  it,  my  boy,  I  know  it.  You  are 
on  the  safe  side,  but  a  little  soft  on  Dottie — all  the 
young  painters,  poets,  composers  are.  I'm  not  blaming 
you  for  her  running  away  from  me.  She  vamoosed  the 
ranch  after  you  brought  her  back  from  the  Spanish 
Stairs."  "She  told  you?"  I  struggled  not  to  appear 
embarrassed.  ''Yes,  and  told  what  a  trump  you  were. 
You  behaved  like  a  gentleman.  I  acted  like  a  brute. 
Don't  scold.  I  am  a  brute.  When  I  accused  her  of 
taking  too  much  interest  in  you — say,  man,  don't  get  up 
so  suddenly,  my  nerves  are  all  taut  from  brandy !  I 
meant  no  offence — why,  she  turned  on  me  like  a  tigress. 
Oh !  She  has  a  sweet  temper.  She  is  poetic.  Such  a 
talent!  I  honestly  think  she  has  used  you  for  'copy.' 
Sit  down !  You  can't  go  away  now  and  leave  me  alone. 
I'll  go  nutty.  All  right,  I  promise  to  say  nothing  more. 
I'm  to  blame — entirely.  No,  I'm  not  jealous — of  you. 
There's  always  a  lot  of  chaps  hanging  around  her  skirts. 
I  wonder  how  she  keeps  from  mixing  up  their  schedules. 
I  simply  couldn't  let  the  brandy  alone—  Do  you  see  this 
book?  Have  you  read  it?"  He  handed  me  a  little 
volume  bound  in  gold  and  green.  I  recognised  it.  "Yes," 
I  answered.  "I  read  Meryona  on  the  train.  It's  ex 
quisite.  Who  wrote  it?  Who  is  this  Rosa  Mystica? 
She  might  belong  to  the  new  group  of  Irish  writers  of 
whom  your  wife — Mrs.  Saint-Hilary — is  so  fond.  I  was 
puzzled  by  faint  echoes  of  Keats,  George  Russell — '  I 
was  only  too  glad  to  lead  the  conversation  into  a  different 
channel.  But  my  heart  was  a  lump  in  my  bosom.  I 


298  STEEPLEJACK 

longed  to  hear  more  news  of  her,  to  learn  the  cause  of 
her  trouble.     And  her  whereabouts. 

"You'll  never  learn  from  me  who  Rosa  Mystica  is," 
replied  Saint-Hilary.  His  expansive  mood  had  vanished. 
In  a  halting  manner  he  read  paragraphs  from  the  book, 
paragraphs  of  rich  meanings,  of  richer  prose.  Nervous 
as  he  was,  he  exposed  in  trained  voice  the  densely  woven 
patterns  of  this  new  prose  with  its  undertones  of  Celtic 
sorrow,  its  veiled  passion,  rhythmic  pathos,  mystical 
overtones,  and  its  wild  call  from  the  heart  of  Erin.  .  .  . 
Meryona !  The  title  was  an  evocation.  And  surely  no 
man  could  have  written  it.  "Yes,  my  boy,  that's  great 
art,  great  soul.  Do  you  know,"  he  whispered,  "they 
have  saddled  me  with  the  authorship?  Even  Dottie 
has  asked  me  the  question,  asked  me,  this  good  old  news 
paper  hack.  Have  a  drink."  He  paused.  I  paid  my 
score  and  arose.  "Not  going !  Listen  to  the  rain  on  the 
roof.  Stay  a  bit.  I  return  to  Rome  early  in  the  morning. 
I  think  PII  find  Dottie  at  home.  Lord,  what  a  face  you 
pull —  Well,  good  night  to  you.  I'm  glad  I  met  you.  If 
you  ever  publish  anything,  send  me  a  copy  and  I'll  give 
it  a  good  review.  Where  are  you  stopping?"  I  hurried 
away.  I  would  have  struck  him  in  another  minute™ 
that  is  what  I  said  to  myself  as  I  went  over  the  bridge 
across  Campo  St.  Moise  into  the  hotel.  But  I  did  not 
sleep  that  night.  I  found  a  pencilled  card  in  the  morn 
ing.  It  told  that  he  hoped  to  see  me  in  Rome  soon. 
No  more.  I  tore  it  up  and  went  for  coffee.  It  still 
rained,  ferociously.  "I'll  go  up  to  Milan  to-night,"  I 
planned.  "At  least  I  can  hear  Duse.  Here!"  I  asked 
for  a  railway  guide  and  marked  down  my  train.  It 
would  leave  in  the  afternoon.  I  breasted  the  wind 


A  HALF-HAMLET  299 

shrieking  through  the  Piazzetta  and  stumbled  along  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavoni.  I  could  hardly  see  Santa  Maria 
della  Salute  for  the  grey  rain  that  came  obliquely  across 
the  lagoon,  titillating  the  shallow  waters  into  foam. 
The  Guidecca  was  a  nebulous  patch.  And  the  sharp, 
salty  odours  that  were  abroad  in  the  air  set  me  dreaming 
of  mid-ocean.  Turning  off  the  unprotected  Riva  I 
walked  at  hazard,  arriving  on  the  Rio  della  Picta. 
There  I  found  the  Church  of  San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni, 
and  entered  more  for  protection  than  from  piety. 

In  front  of  Carpaccio's  "Saint  George  and  the  Dragon" 
I  saw  her.  At  once  the  poorly  lighted  church  was  flooded 
as  if  by  a  Turner  sunburst.  Forgotten  the  wet,  forgotten 
Venice,  forgotten  Saint-Hilary  with  his  odious  confidences. 
She  stood  there,  in  devotional  attitude,  before  the  mas 
terpiece.  I  almost  expected  her  to  kneel  in  prayer  as  she 
had  knelt  that  first  day  in  the  cemetery.  Then  the  lame 
cicerone,  who  sews  when  he  is  not  explaining  the  pictures 
to  Ruskin-bewildered  tourists,  spoke  to  me.  Would  the 
Signor  Inglese  care  to  look?  My  threatening  expression 
silenced  him.  But  it  was  too  late  to  retreat;  attracted 
by  the  voices,  she  turned.  I  could  have  called  her 
Blessed  as  in  an  unconcerned  manner  she  crossed  to  me. 
She  saved  me  a  wilderness  of  explanations.  "Suppose 
we  go  to  the  hotel,"  she  remarked  in  her  accustomed  cool 
tones.  The  wind  twisted  our  umbrellas  and  beat  rain 
into  our  faces  so  that  an  exchange  of  words  was  not  easy. 
An  idea  overtook  me;  as  we  passed  the  gondolas  at  the 
Piazzetta  I  shouted  in  her  ears:  "The  Giardino  Reale ! 
Let's  go."  In  a  few  minutes  two  barelegged  men  were 
fighting  as  inch  by  inch  they  slowly  paddled  their  craft 
through  toppling  seas.  It  was  a  daring  excursion;  the 
little  steamer  would  have  carried  us  more  safely;  but  then 


300  STEEPLEJACK 

we  could  not  have  sat  so  intimately  as  in  the  gondola. 
Drenched,  we  entered  the  picture-gallery  in  the  Royal 
Gardens  and  stopped  to  breathe;  we  soon  found  a  cafe, 
where  I  ordered  something.  I  did  not  attempt  to  ask 
questions.  Her  grateful  eyes  rewarded  me,  but  the  events 
of  the  past  few  hours  were  telling  on  my  nerves,  on  my 
imagination.  I  felt  bolder  than  in  Rome.  The  woman 
I  adored  was  with  me,  apparently  contented  in  my  com 
pany.  And  how  lovely  she  looked.  The  damp  air  had 
set  burning  her  rich  Irish  complexion.  Her  grey  eyes, 
enlarged  by  sorrow,  did  not  avoid  my  gaze.  Subtle 
curves  were  in  her  smile.  She  was  more  radiant  than 
I  had  ever  seen  her  at  Rome. 

Emboldened  by  the  old  Chianti,  I  exclaimed: 
"I'm  so  happy,  Dorothea."  She  wider  opened  her 
eyes.  I  placed  my  hand  in  hers.  "I'm  so  happy.  O 
to  be  in  Venice!  And  with  you.  I — "  "Hadn't  we 
better  return  to  the  hotel?"  she  asked.  I  hesitated. 
The  man  who  hesitates  is  sometimes  saved.  "I  hope 
you  will  pardon  my  crazy  tongue.  I'm  only  telling  you 
the  truth.  How  I  supposed  since  that  night — "  She 
interrupted:  "But  you  are  too  nervous  to  talk.  You 
have  not  said  anything,  told  any  truth — and  you  must 
not.  I  am  alone.  Be  my  friend.  A  woman  alone  is 
always  in  the  wrong.  Here  is  the  waiter.  Pay  him  and 
let  me  go.  Please!"  Despairingly,  I  settled.  We  went 
into  the  gale  and  walked,  crossing  slippery  marble 
bridges,  deserted  quays,  and  to  the  howling  tune  of  the 
wind.  When  we  at  last  reached  the  Hotel  Danieli,  she 
bowed  her  head  and  entered.  This  was  too  much.  I 
followed,  and  in  the  salon  called  to  her.  I  felt  myself 
wilting  under  her  piercing  gaze,  but  I  would  not  be 


A  HALF-HAMLET  301 

silenced.  "Listen  to  me — Mrs.  Saint-Hilary.  I  may 
be  the  victim  of  an  artistic  vivisection,  yet  in  Rome 
when  you  were  with  your  husband,  I  held  my  tongue. 
But  this  is  Venice.  I  refuse  to  be  tortured  any  longer. 
Last  night  I  saw  him,  saw  Saint-Hilary — "  She  started, 
then  blushed  hotly.  "Last  night— here?"  "Here,"  I 
persisted.  "He  told  me  all,"  I  defiantly  continued, 
though  I  knew  I  was  becoming  melodramatic  in  my 
manner.  "He  told  me  all.  I  know  who  wrote  Meryona, 
that  beautiful  book.  Oh  !  Dorothea,  you  wonderful  poet, 
how  can  you  endure  your  life?"  "He  said  I  wrote  Mery 
ona?"  "No,  not  exactly.  He  said  that  he  had  been 
credited  with  the  book."  "He  is  the  author,  do  you  hear 
me?  My  husband  is  the  author  of  the  books  signed  Rosa 
Mystica."  She  was  a  blazing  sunset.  She  fairly  glit 
tered  in  her  wrath.  "I  don't  believe  it — I  don't  believe 
it."  "You  must  believe  it,"  and  then  her  humour 
changed.  "Now,  sit  down  and  be  quiet.  Let  us  think 
the  matter  out."  Bewildered,  I  followed  her  movements. 
For  five  minutes  she  paced  the  room.  I  could  hear  the 
thumping  of  my  heart.  "I'll  go  back  to  Rome  with 
you,"  she  gravely  announced,  her  eyes  narrowed  to  slits, 
her  voice  filed  to  a  provocative  murmur.  Joyfully  I 
sprang  towards  her — at  last  the  violin  had  vibrated  to 
my  key-note.  "No,  no — not  yet!"  The  silky  smile  of 
her  set  me  crazy.  "  Do  you  return  to  your  hotel.  Come 
for  me  in  an  hour.  I'll  be  ready."  Happily  dismissed, 
I  rushed  back  to  my  room,  packed,  paid  my  bill,  and 
before  the  sixty  minutes  had  passed  I  was  again  at  the 
Danieli.  The  portier  solemnly  looked  at  me.  The  lady 
had  gone  away  half  an  hour  ago.  "Gone!  Why,  I 
had  an  engagement  with  her."  "A  big  gentleman  called 
a  few  minutes  after  you  left,"  soothingly  replied  the 


302  STEEPLEJACK 

fellow  as  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Her  husband!"  I 
mechanically  cried  but  in  a  chilly  rage,  determined  to 
wear  a  brave  face.  "Oh,  yes,  her  husband — thank  you, 
Signor."  With  women  the  unexpected  rules,  I  rumi 
nated.  When  they  pipe,  men  must  dance,  and  once  I  had 
believed  the  contrary.  Life  is  very  different  from  books. 
As  the  train  traversed  the  interminable  bridge,  I  looked 
at  Venice  storm-begirt,  sea  and  sky  in  watery  embrace, 
and,  my  throat  choking,  I  tried  to  hum:  "Oh,  to  be  a 
woman  and  a  nomad's  heart  in  me!"  But  I  was  only 
a  sentimental  comedian,  and  soon  my  eyes  were  wet, 
like  Venice. 

VI 

What  had  I  done,  what  had  I  said?  I  often  asked  my 
self.  I  had  loved  a  woman  with  a  lyric  bird  nesting  in 
her  bosom,  neglected  by  a  coarse  husband,  one  who 
smirkingly  had  taken  upon  himself  the  honours  due  his 
wife.  (I  have  since  noted  that  the  husband  of  the  woman 
you  desire  is  always  "coarse,"  though  on  closer  acquain 
tance  he  is  very  nice;  nicer,  perhaps,  than  his  "misunder 
stood"  spouse;  and  I  have  known  more  than  one  case 
where  a  man  has  regretted  the  lost  friendship  of  a  man 
in  exchange  for  the  doubtful  favours  of  the  woman  who 
betrayed  him.)  Who  breaks,  pays.  And  I  had  not 
been  allowed  to  tell  her  of  my  sincere  affection ;  under  the 
sting  of  her  husband's  indirect  revelations,  and  the  wine 
and  the  weather  (curse  that  Chianti!),  I  had  whimpered 
and  she  had  left  me.  Had  she  not  throughout  our  brief 
acquaintance  always  sent  me  away  from  her  ?  Oh ! 
what  an  ass  was  I !  The  woman  had  never  ceased  loving 
her  husband — not  even  when  ill-treated.  And  I  fancied 
I  understood  the  uneasy  sex.  Oh !  what  a  dolt !  And 


A  HALF-HAMLET  303 

to  seek  her  love  in  such  a  hurried  style — like  a  train  that 
must  be  overtaken.   .   .   . 

One  day  in  Paris  I  read  of  the  sudden  death  from 
apoplexy  of  the  noted  writer  Lewis  Saint-Hilary;  and 
the  chronicles  were  full  of  the  past  doings  of  this  robust 
worthy,  who,  in  addition  to  having  been  a  journalist  of 
experience,  unexpectedly  proved  to  be  the  author  of 
Meryona,  that  prose  epic  of  Erin,  the  first  impulse  to  the 
Neo-Celtic  renascence.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  returned 
to  Rome.  There  I  did  not  find  the  Bernervilles.  They 
had  gone  to  Egypt,  taking  with  them  Prince  Abbazia, 
whose  health  was  far  from  reassuring — the  sympathetic 
Cameriere  added  that  Burgundy  and  brandy  were  poor 
props  to  a  long  life.  And  Madame  Saint-Hilary !  Ah ! 
He  threw  out  his  skinny  hands,  palms  upwards;  she  never 
came  now  to  the  Palazzo  Barbarini.  She  is  the  widow 
of  a  distinguished  poet — addio,  Signor,  addio !  .  .  . 

Another  October  sun  slanted  its  yellow  glory  from  the 
western  sky  as  I  entered  the  narrow  gate  of  the  Protestant 
cemetery,  which  still  wore  its  air  of  delicate  desolation. 
One  year  earlier  I  had  here  encountered  my  fate,  the  first 
woman,  I  am  certain,  who  understood  me.  My  step 
was  heavy  as  up  the  slope  I  went  to  the  remains  of  my 
poets.  Was  it  a  trick  of  memory  or  hallucination  that 
pictured  for  me  a  kneeling  figure;  but  at  a  newly  made 
grave,  not  Shelley's  this  time !  Increasing  my  speed,  I 
sprang  up  the  incline.  She  did  not  turn  as  I  came  to 
the  tomb.  It  was,  indeed,  the  widow  of  Lewis  Saint- 
Hilary,  garbed  in  green,  and  so  immersed  in  her  medi 
tations  that  I  feared  to  disturb  her.  For  minutes  I  kept 
silence,  then  my  temperament  mastered  my  tongue — 


304  STEEPLEJACK 


besides,  the  colour  of  her  hair  worried  me;  it  had  been 
black,  now  it  was  blonde,  a  true  Botticellian  blonde. 
The  change  made  me  doubly  curious.  "Dorothea,"  I 
softly  called.  "Dorothea."  She  did  not  move.  "Do 
you  know  who  is  speaking,  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary?"  I  con 
tinued,  my  courage  oozing  through  the  very  cadences 
of  my  voice.  "I  know — yes."  "Won't  you  see  me 
again?"  This  imploringly.  She  sternly  replied:  "No." 
"Is  this— is  this  all?"  "All,"  and  compressed  in  the 
answer  was  the  Venice  of  our  last  day — cold,  rainy, 
charmless.  Stung  to  the  centre  of  my  dearest  vanity,  I 
left  her.  For  me  she  was  a  cracked  fiddle.  She  was 
married  to  the  memory  of  her  dead:  a  spiritual  Suttee. 
With  a  final  gesture  I  bade  my  hopes  take  flight.  It  was 
the  first  brave  act  in  my  irresolute  life.  As  I  passed 
through  the  portal  of  the  cemetery,  I  felt  like  a  man  who 
had  at  last  escaped  the  burdens  of  a  corroding  conscience. 
If  marriage  depended  alone  on  woman,  how  long  would 
the  institution  endure? 

For  years  the  literary  world  was  startled  by  posthumous 
works  of  the  late  fecund  and  brilliant  Lewis  Saint- 
Hilary.  His  widow  proved  an  admirable  editor  of  the 
deceased  man's  manuscripts.  Epical  and  dramatic,  lyric, 
pathetic,  saturated  with  patriotism  and  wistful  poesy, 
the  note  of  the  Gaelic  race,  these  books  in  verse  and  prose 
set  us  all  wondering  why  we  had  so  underestimated  the 
powers  of  Saint-Hilary.  Even  his  wife  had  called  him 
lazy.  Parallel  cases  may  be  remembered  with  the  widows 
of  a  celebrated  French  historian,  and  of  an  Englishman 
who  wrote  so  significantly  about  Gaelic  lore;  both  the  wid 
ows  edited  posthumous  works,  and  the  Frenchwoman's 
devotion  was  so  great,  so  it  has  been  rumoured,  that  she 
outran  her  prudence  and  wrote  some  books  herself — but 


A  HALF-HAMLET  305 

that's  stale  literary  gossip.  Certainly  Mrs.  Saint-Hilary 
did  not  write  Meryona.  She  told  me  so.  And  yet — I 
often  think  that  if  Dorothea  had  but  realised  the  golden 
opportunity  she  lost  when  she  refused  to  transform  a  half- 
Hamlet  into  a  singing  poet  and  do  for  the  living  what  she 
accomplished  for  the  dead,  perhaps  I  might  have  mastered 
my  emotional  reticence;  perhaps.  .  .  .  But  why,  psy 
chologically  speaking,  did  she  become  a  Botticellian 
blonde?  Did  she  have  the  feminine  thirst  for  a  second 
submission  ?  That  is  a  more  provocative  and  fascinating 
enigma  than  the  disputed  authorship  of  Meryona. 


CODA 

And  now  it  is  time  to  ring  down  the  final  curtain 
on  the  show.  I  might  go  on  tapping  new  levels  of 
energy,  to  use  the  striking  phrase  of  William  James,  but 
to  what  purpose !  Life  is  like  an  onion.  You  may  peel 
off  layer  after  layer  until  you  reach  the  core — and  then 
there  is  nothing.  So  could  I  skin  my  little  symphony, 
in  which  there  has  been  more  dissonance  than  har 
mony,  and  enumerate  my  leading-motives;  my  medi 
ocrity;  my  resigned  attitude  as  a  contemporary;  my 
steeplejackism — I  am  still  an  impenitent  steeplejack 
and  hope  to  die  with  my  boots  on;  my  disgust  with 
Barmecide  banquets;  my  vanity,  selfishness,  and  ego 
tism;  my  mannerisms,  limitations;  my  many  sins 
of  omission  and  commission,  including  my  regrets  for 
girls  unkissed;  my  garrulity,  discursiveness,  and  vice 
of  allusiveness;  the  list  might  be  made  much  longer, 
only  you  must  be  weary  of  the  personal  pronoun  stitched 
in  the  palimpsest  of  my  adventure.  The  truth  is  seldom 
amusing,  and  my  velleities  too  often  graze  the  fantastic. 
But  you  may  put  your  hand  in  this  rag-bag  of  mine  and 
pull  out  a  quotation  worth  remembering;  indeed,  this 
may  be  critically  judged  from  the  protasis  to  the  catas 
trophe  as  a  book  of  beautiful  quotations.  Fancy,  if  I 
had  followed  the  pattern  of  Dostoievsky  and  devoted 
several  hundred  thousand  words  to  one  day's  happenings 
in  life !  It  is  at  least  a  negative  virtue  that  I  did  not  do 
this.  Other  ears,  other  songs.  I  forgot  my  belief  in  a 
personal  devil  as  a  leading-motive,  that  devil  who  could 
say  in  jocular  accents,  for  he  is  a  sound  Latinist,  even  if 

306 


CODA  307 

he  likes  to  twist  a  text  to  suit  his  diabolic  purpose: 
"Sathanas  sum,  et  nihil  humanum  a  me  *K«B«i""»  puto." 
After  that  Terence  may  go  bug.  And  don't  forget  the 
devil  is  a  believer. 

The  genesis  of  these  avowals  was  simple  gmwgfc-  My 
editor  wagered  me  that  I  could  write  them  and  I  wagcicd 
him  I  could  not.  I  lost,  but  as  nothing  was  ft**"***,  he, 
too,  lost.  It  was  galley-slave  work,  as  not  a  line  was 
written  till  May  15,  1918.  Yet  not  altogether  an  un 
pleasant  task.  And  finished  in  exactly  fifteen  weeks, 
written  with  a  pen.  As  I  once  said  to  Theodore  Presser: 
How  happy  we  were  in  the  days  when  we  were  starving  I 
And  the  mighty  maw  of  the  printing-press  engulfing 
"copy"  by  the  mile!  I  often  felt  like  that  Russian 
peasant,  who,  chased  by  a  bear,  finally  reached  his  house, 
swimming  the  last  mile;  happy,  exhausted,  but  per 
spiring  rivers.  I  have  covered  a  period  of  at  least  fifty 
years.  Need  I  tefl  you  that  my  cosmopolitan  sin  peeled 
off  like  dry  paint  from  a  cracked  wall  when  President  Wil 
son  proclaimed  our  nation  at  war?  I  shall  never  forget 
the  amazed  expression  of  Colonel  Roosevelt  as  I  admitted 
that  I  was  in  Paris  when  I  attained  my  majority,  and 
did  not  cast  a  vote  in  our  presidential  election.  And  be 
was  justified  in  his  gesime  of  disapproval;  cosmopoli 
tanism  is  all  very  well  for  the  dilettante,  but  for  a  young 
man  on  the  threshold  of  life  h  is  sometimes  deadly 
poison.  Our  country  first.  This  is  a  fighting  planet. 
Pacificism  is  a  pipe-dream.  The  Lord  is  a  man  of  war. 
Tofle,  lege! 

After  sixty  a  man's  future  lies  behind  him.  The  thing 
that  hath  been,  it  is  that  which  shall  be.  He  dwells  in 
memory-images.  Yeais  ago  I  lived  in  the  Impasse  du 
Maine,  on  the  left  bank,  Paris.  Every  morning  I  was 


3o8  STEEPLEJACK 

annoyed  because  awakened  by  piano-playing,  evidently 
that  of  a  mediocre  amateur  (some  amateurs  are  not 
mediocre).  I  asked  that  handy  busybody  of  all  work, 
the  concierge,  if  he  knew  the  name  of  the  relentless  pianist. 
"Ah,  that  is  M.  le  Comte.  He  is  very  old  and  is  spend 
ing  his  time  pleasantly  before  he  dies."  Later  I  saw 
M.  le  Comte.  White  of  beard,  spry  for  an  octogenarian, 
his  muscles  still  capable  of  pounding,  he  seemed  far  from 
the  end  of  every  man's  desire.  The  words  of  the  con 
cierge  now  made  their  appeal  to  me:  "He  is  spending 
his  time  pleasantly  before  he  dies."  Can  you  think 
of  anything  more  reasonable?  He  played  cards,  no 
doubt,  did  M.  le  Comte,  and  went  to  his  pet  cafe  to  sip 
coffee,  smoke,  and  read  the  newspaper,  stuffed  with  his 
favourite  prejudices.  But  the  main  business  of  the 
day  was  his  hour  at  the  keyboard.  The  music  must  have 
made  his  rusty  old  bones  sweeter.  I  recall  that  he 
always  finished  with  the  Souvenir  de  Kiev,  by  a  Bo 
hemian  composer,  a  friend  of  Chopin,  Jules  Schulhoff. 
There  was  a  prodigious  amount  of  bang  and  clatter, 
and  then  the  old  nobleman,  who  probably  remembered 
Louis  Philippe,  would  saunter  forth,  in  his  buttonhole 
a  rose,  a  malacca  cane  jauntily  switching  the  earth.  I 
envied  this  serene  sunset  of  a  long,  useless,  and  no  doubt 
troubled  existence.  Who  wrote  "It  is  wonderful  what 
one  ray  of  sunshine  can  do  for  the  soul  of  man  "  ?  Music 
was  this  old  chap's  sunshine. 

I  can't  play  cards  or  billiards.  I  can't  read  day  and 
night.  I  take  no  interest  in  the  chess-board  of  politics, 
and  I  am  not  too  pious.  What  shall  I  do?  Music, 
always  music !  There  are  certain  compositions  by  my 
beloved  Chopin  to  master  which  eternity  itself  would  not 
be  too  long.  That  last  page  of  the  Second  Ballade  as 


CODA  309 


Anton  Rubinstein  played  it,  in  apocalyptic  thunder- 
tones  !  Or  the  study  in  double-thirds  rippled  off  by  the 
velvety  fingers  of  de  Pachmann !  I  once  more  place 
the  notes  on  the  piano-desk.  Courage !  Time  is  fuga 
cious.  How  many  years  have  I  not  played  that  magic 
music?  Music  the  flying  vision  .  .  .  music  that  merges 
with  the  tender  air  ...  its  image  melts  in  shy  misty 
shadows  .  .  .  the  cloud,  the  cloud,  the  singing,  shining 
cloud  .  .  .  over  the  skies  and  far  away  .  .  .  the  beckon 
ing  cloud.  .  .  . 

FINIS 


INDEX 


Abbazia,  Prince,  ii,  282-285,  303 

Abbey,  Henry  E.,  ii,  35,  62 

Abbey,  Schoeffel  and  Grau,  ii,  35,  36,  40 

Abbott,  Emma,  ii,  155 

Academy  of  Music,  i,  42 

Academy  of  Natural  Sciences,  i,  79,  288 

Adam,  Paul,  ii,  248 

Adams,  Franklin  P.,  ii,  175 

Adams,  Henry,  ii,  210 

Agnani,  Ettore,  ii,  179-183 

Albert,  Prince  of  Wales,  i,  248 

Aldrich,  Richard,  i,  287;   ii,  16 

Alvars,  Parrish,  i,  39 

Alvary,  Max,  ii,  34,  46,  47 

American  art,  ii,  204-206,  210 

American  Opera  Company,  ii,  38 

Anastasia,  Grand  Duchess  of  Russia, 

i,  258 

Anderson,  Mary,  ii,  154 
Ando,  Flavio,  ii,  148 
Antonelli,  Cardinal,  ii,  284 
Arch  Street  Theatre  Stock  Company, 

i,  68,  69,  7i-73L83 
Archer,  William,  ii,  159 
Arditi,  ii,  33 
Arnold,  Matthew,  i,  55,  121,  164,  185, 

230,  266;   ii,  12,  123,  178 
Art  students  in  Paris,  i,  240 
Arthur,  Joe,  ii,  89,  90 
Artzibachev,  i,  270;   ii,  135 
Ashforth,  Madame  Frida,  ii,  17,  30,  155 
Austen,  Jane,  i,  187,  270 
Auteuil,  France,  i,  276,  277 

Bach,  Johann  Sebastian,  i,   148,   155, 

262;   ii,  211 

Bachmann,  Waldemar,  ii,  167 
Backus,  Charles,  ii,  154 
Bacon,  Francis,  i,  129 
Baird,  Matthew,  i,  77 
Baker,  Lewis,  i,  66,  84 
Baker,  Dr.  W.  P.,  i,  47 
Bakunine,  ii,  135 
Baldwin  Locomotive  Works,  the,  i,  77, 

107-117 


Baldwin,  Mathias,  i,  77 

Balestier,  Wolcott,  ii,  152 

Balzac,   i,    266,    267,    277;    ii,    6,    91, 

170,  173,  213,  232 

Barili,  Alfredo,  i,  41,  42,  185,  188,  206 
Barili,  Antonio,  i,  41;   ii,  155 
Barili,  Caterina,  i,  41;  ii,  155 
Barili,  Ettore,  i,  41 
Barili,  Henry,  i,  42 
Barnabee,  Henry  Clay,  ii,  153 
Barnard,  George  Grey,  ii,  205 
Barres,  Maurice,  ii,  227,  231 
Barrett,  Lawrence,  i,  80;  ii,  14,  149 
Barrymore,  Ethel,  i,  69 
Barrymore,  John,  i,  69 
Barrymore,  Lionel,  i,  69 
Barrymore,    Maurice,   i,   68;    ii,    145, 

146,  157 

Bartet,  Julia,  ii,  243 
Bartholome,  i,  267 
Bashkirtseff,  Marie,  i,  289;  ii,  132 
Bastien-Lepage,  i,  289;   ii,  163 
Baudelaire,  Charles,  i,  6,   16,  35,  40, 

55-57,   100,  269;    ii,  103,  106,  119, 

194,  199,  209,  230,  235 
Baudry,  Paul,  i,  239 
Bauer,  Harold,  i,  256 
Bauer-Grunwald's  cafe,  ii,  295 
Bauermeister,  M'lle,  i,  256 
Beaconsfield,  Lord.     See  Disraeli 
Beardsley,  Aubrey,  i,  273 
Beck,  James  M.,  i,  200 
Becque,  Henri,  ii,  147,  244 
Beecham,  Sir  Thomas,  ii,  36 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  ii,  142 
Beerbohm,    Herbert,    i,   312,   313;     ii, 

47,  150 
Beerbohm,  Max,  i,  7,  58,  313;   ii,  251- 

255,  261,  264 
Beethoven,  i,  155,  169,  255,  256,  261; 

ii,  201,  213 

Behrens,  Siegfried,  i,  188 
Belasco,  David,  ii,  156 
Bellevue  Hotel,  Philadelphia,  i,  82,  83 
Bellew  (the  elder),  i,  95 


312 


INDEX 


Bellew,  Kyrle,  ii,  238,  239 

Bellini,  i,  278 

Bendix,  Max,  ii,  26,  71 

Bennett,  Arnold,  ii,  126 

Bennett,  James  Gordon,  i,  94,  95 

Berenson,  Bernard,  ii,  164,  248 

Bergson,  Henri,  i,  8,  179,  187,  318;   ii, 

95,  109,  247 

Berlioz,  i,  199,  200,  254;   ii,  198 
Bernard,  M.  and  Mme.,  i,  225,  227,  228, 

230-234,  252^ 

Bernard,  Caroline  Richings,  ii,  155 
Bernerville,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  ii,  280-^289, 

303 
Bernhardt,    Sarah,    i,    267,    274,    289; 

ii,  145 

Besant,  Annie,  ii,  92-94 
Beyle,  Henry.     See  Stendhal 
Bierce,  Ambrose,  ii,  n 
Bigeon,  Maurice,  ii,  138 
Binet,  Alfred,  i,  288 
Birnbaum,  Julius,  i,  313 
Bismarck,  i,  134,  151,  236;  ii,  27,  30 
Bizet,  Georges,  i,  170,  253 
Bjeeregaard,  Edwin,  ii,  95 
Bjornson,  ii,  137 
Blackstone,  i,  119 
Blake,  William,  i,  195,  250;  ii,  236 
Bland,  i,  105 
Blashfield,  Edwin,  i,  240 
Blavatsky,  Helena,  ii,  92-98 
Bles,  Arthur,  ii,  117,  120 
Bles,  David,  ii,  117 
Blitz,  Signer,  i,  102,  103 
Bloch,  Ernest,  i,  171 
Blumenberg,   Marc,   ii,   8,    18-23,   61, 

190,  257 
Bochsa,  i,  39 
Bock,  Anna,  i,  253 
Bohemia,  i,  208,  209 
Boileau  house,  the,  i,  276 
Boldt,  George,  i,  82,  83 
Bolin,  Paul,  ii,  69 
Bonfield,  George,  i,  44,  47 
Bonnat,  Leon,  i,  48,  239,  240,  243 
Booth  (the  elder),  i,  37,  38 
Booth,  Edwin,  i,  72,  80,  85,  274;   ii,  14, 

48,  148,  150,  151 
Boscovitz,  Frederic,  i,  253 
Bossuet,  i,  51 
Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  ii,  70 


Boswell,  James,  ii,  3 

Boucher,  i,  291 

Boucicault,  Dion,  ii,  89,  154 

Boudin,  i,  242 

Boudreaux,  Father,  i,  55 

Bouguereau,  i,  45,  48,  239,  267;  ii,  163 

Bourdaloue,  i,  56 

Bourget,  Paul,  i,  203;  ii,  117,  128,  177, 

248,  266 

Bournot,  Otto,  i,  166,  167 
Bouty,  i,  264 
Bowers,  Mrs.  D.  P.,  i,  85 
Bowman,  Charles,  i,  21 
Bowman,     Elizabeth,     Frances     and 

Mary,  i,  21 

Bowman  (music -critic),  ii,  1 6 
Boyd,  John  T.,  ii,  23 
Boyesen,  Professor  H.  H.,  ii,  159 
Bracquemond,  i,  268 
Bradlaugh,  Charles,  ii,  92-94 
Brahms,  i,  146,  261;   ii,  67,  213,  235 
Brancusi,  i,  274;  ii,  163 
Brandes,   Dr.   Georg,   i,   165,   168;    ii, 

123,  134-140,  213,  225-227 
Brandt,  Marianne,  ii,  34 
Braslau,  Sophie,  i,  162 
Brassey,  Lord,  i,  66 
Brentano,  Augustus,  ii,  14 
Brewster,  Annie  Hampton,  i,  133,  194, 

195,  202 

Brewster,  Benjamin  Harris,  i,  133 
Brignoli,  i,  42;   ii,  31,  34 
Brinton,  Dr.,  i,  53 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  i,  187 
Brougham,  John,  i,  84;  ii,  148 
Brown,  Father  George,  i,  300 
Brown,  Harry  Orville,  ii,  71 
Brownell,  William  Crary,  ii,  122,  123, 

245 
Browning,  Robert,  i,  262,  273;   ii,  160, 

201,  250 

Brubacher's  cafe,  ii,  25,  77 
Bruneau,  Alfred,  ii,  249 
Brunetiere,  ii,  122 
Bryan,  William  J.,  i,  7 
Bryn  Mawr,  i,  200 
Bull,  Ole,  i,  38,  39,  185 
Bulletin,  Evening,  Philadelphia,  i,  198— 

200,  229,  258 

Billow.     See  von  Billow 

Bunn,  Colonel  William  M.,  i,  82. 


INDEX 


Bunting,  Mr.,  i,  199 

Bunyan,  John,  i,  57 

Burbank,  Luther,  ii,  114,  115 

Burgess,  Gelett,  ii,  175 

Burke,  Father  Tom,  i,  95 

Burleigh,  Harry  T.,  ii,  66,  68 

Burne- Jones,  Edward,  ii,  54,  56,  1 86 

Burrell,  Mary,  i,  167 

Burton,  William,  i,  36,  38;  ii,  47 

Butler,  Pierce,  i,  38 

Byrne,  Charles  Alfred,  ii,  62,  89,  90 

Byron,  Lord,  i,  94,  275 

Byron,  H.  J.,  i,  72 

Cabanel,  i,  45,  48,  239,  267,  268;   H,  124 
Cafe,  the,  ii,  10,  ii 
Caillebotte,  i,  267,  268 
Calabria,  i,  303;   ii,  112 
Calve,  Emma,  ii,  35,  36,  39,  50 
Campanini,  i,  42;  ii,  32,  34 
Campbell,  Mrs.  Pat,  ii,  238,  239 
Canada,  the,  i,  206,  213-217 
Candida,  ii,  273,  274 
Canfield,  Richard,  ii,  165,  166 
Capoul,  Victor,  i,  283;  ii,  65,  155 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  i,  9,  125,  229,  230, 

250;  ii,  139,  240 
Carncross  and  Dixey's,  i,  64 
Carnegie,  Andrew,  ii,  141 
Carolus-Duran,  i,  48,  239,  243 
Carreno,  Teresita,  i,  95,  183 
Carroll,  General  Howard,  ii,  88 
Carrollton,  the,  ii,  201-203,  2°6 
Carter,  Williams,  i,  173 
Caruso,  Enrico,  ii,  40,  44 
Cary- Raymond,  Annie  Louise,  i,  42; 

»,  34 

Cassagnac.     See  de  Cassagnac 
Cassatt,  Mary,  i,  266,  268 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,  i,  6 
Centennial    Exposition,    1876,    i,    46, 

121,  122,  195,  253 

Cezanne,  Paul,  i,  253;    ii,  124,  163-165 
Chambers,  Julius,  ii,  88 
Chambers,  Robert  W.,  ii,  169,  172 
Chamfort,  i,  4 
Chapman,  John  Jay,  ii,  241 
Chase,  William  M.,  ii,  63,  64,  162,  205 
Chavannes.     See  de  Chavannes 
Chegaray  Institute,  the,  i,  92 
Chesterton,  G.  K.,  ii,  251,  261 


Chestnut  Street  Theatre  Stock  Com 
pany,  i,  84,  254 

Chickering  piano  agency,  the,  i,  203, 
204 

"Children  of  Adam,  The,"  i,  309,  310 

Childs,  George  W.,  i,  222 

Chopin,  Frederic  Francois,  i,  40,  56, 
139,  141,  143,  146,  154,  169,  188,  249, 
254,  261,  277,  278,  283;  ii,  38,  42,  46, 
55,  70,  104,  193,  201,  206-208,  213, 
215,  235,  253,  258,  260,  268,  280,  308, 

309 

Chopin:  The  Man  and  His  Music,  i, 
105,  249;  ii,  43,  109,  117,  214,  227 

Claghorn,  James  L.,  i,  46 

Claire,  M'lle,  i,  221 

Claretie,  Jules,  ii,  117,  248 

Clarisse,  i,  181,  182 

Clarke,  John  Sleeper,  i,  69,  84 

Clarke,  Joseph  I.  C.,  i,  32;  ii,  89 

Claude-Lorraine,  i,  44,  54,  243;   ii,  205 

Cleveland,  Grover,  i,  137 

Cline,  Maggie,  i,  170;  ii,  196 

Clothes,  i,  125 

Clowes,  Major,  ii,  91 

Coghlan,  Charles,  i,  70;  ii,  146,  148 

Coghlan,  Rose,  ii,  148 

Cohen,  Alfred,  ii,  144 

Coleridge,  ii,  124,  200 

Colet,  Louise,  ii,  250 

Collars,  ii,  50-52 

Collett,  Camilla,  ii,  217 

Colonne,  i,  251,  254,  259 

Colour-hearing,  ii,  200 

Comet,  The,  i,  122,  123 

Commainville,  Carolina,  ii,  249 

Compton,  Edward,  ii,  154 

Conrad,  Joseph,  i,  25;  ii,  43,  96,  128- 
133,  176,  233,  234 

Conrad,  Judge,  i,  38 

Conried,  Heinrich,  ii,  36,  143 

Conservatoire  de  la  Musique,  Paris,  i, 
247-249 

Constable,  i,  65,  280;   ii,  205 

Constant,  i,  281,  282,  284 

Conway,  Moncure  D.,  i,  195,  197 

Cook  (magician),  i,  103 

Cooke,  Jay,  and  Company,  i,  124 

Cooper,  Francis,  i,  21,  29 

Cope,  i,  288;   ii,  116 

Copley,  ii,  205 


3*4 


INDEX 


Coralie,  i,  231-235 

Corbin,  John,  ii,  no 

Cornelius,  Peter,  ii,  259,  260 

Corot,  i,  241,  242;  ii,  163 

Correggio,  i,  47 

Cortissoz,  Royal,  ii,  147,  241 

Courbet,  Gustave,  i,  241 

Courson,  Helen,  i,  240 

Cousin,  Victor,  i,  266;   ii,  250 

Couture,  Thomas,  i,  243,  263,  265 

Cowles,  Eugene,  ii,  153 

Craig,  Bob,  i,  73,  83 

Craig,  Hugh,  ii,  8,  9,  19 

Craigie,  Pearl  Richards,  ii,  229,  245 

Crane,  Stephen,  i,  270;  ii,  128 

Craven,  Mrs.,  i,  128 

Crawford,  Marion,  i,  300;   ii,  171 

Crinkle,  Nym,  ii,  144,  146 

Criticism,  i,  198,  199,  207;  ii,  122-127, 

201,  213 

Croce,  Benedetto,  ii,  123 
Cromwell,  ii,  270 
Cross,  B.,  i,  29 
Cross,  Michael  H.,  i,  29,  42,  140-143, 

148,  155-158,  199;  ii.  47 
Cunningham,  Frank,  i,  310,  311 
Cushman,  Charlotte,  i,  42,  84 
Czerny,  Carl,  i,  154,  204 
Czolgoz,  ii,  263 

Dale,  Alan,  ii,  89,  144,  146 

Dale,  Richard,  i,  120,  130 

Daly,  Arnold,  ii,  272 

Daly,  Augustin,  ii,  145,  147,  272 

Damrosch,  Leopold,  i,  200;  ii,  36 

Damrosch,  Walter,  i,  200;  ii,  36 

Dana,  Charles  A.,  ii,  109 

Dana,  Paul,  ii,  109 

D'Annunzio,  Gabriele,  ii,  148,  198,  293 

Dante,  i,  56;   ii,  101 

Darling,  Mrs.,  i,  199 

Darwin,  ii,  116 

Daubigny,  i,  242,  254 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  i,  238,  253;  ii,  168 

Daumier,  Honore,  i,  254,  255 

d'Aurevilly,  Barbey,  i,  246,  253 

Davenport,  E.  L.,  i,  84,  85 

Davenport,  Fanny,  i,  83,  85;  ii,  152 

David,  Felicien,  i,  259,  260 

Davidge  (the  elder),  i,  83 

Davidson,  Jo,  ii,  163 


Davies,  Acton,  ii,  144 

Davies,  Arthur  B.,  ii,  64,  162,  205 

Da  Vinci,  i,  291 

Davis,  Charles  Belmont,  i,  138 

Davis,  Jessie  Bartlett,  ii,  153 

Davis,  L.  Clark,  i,  138 

Davis,  Rebecca  Harding,  i,  138 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  i,  138 

Debussy,  Claude,  i,  274;   ii,  104 

de  Cassagnac,  Paul,  i,  231,  239 

De  Casseres,  Benjamin,  ii,  172 

de  Chavannes,  Puvis,  i,  267;  ii,  142 

Degas,  Edgar,  i,  241,  244,  266,  268- 

273;   ii,  164 

de  Goncourt,  Edmond,  ii,  119 
de  Goncourts,  the,  i,  269,  270,  277,  278 
de  Gourmont,  Remy,  i,  191,  316;    ii, 

117,  118,  239,  247,  248,  252,  253 
de  Guerin,  Eugenie,  i,  56,  128 
de  Guerin,  Maurice,  i,  56 
de  Joinville,  Prince,  i,  263 
De  Koven,  Reginald,  ii,  20,  6l 
Delaunay,  i,  239 
de  Maupassant,  Guy,  i,  239,  277;    ii, 

169,  173,  196,  198,  230,  249 
de  Mendoza,  Suarez,  ii,  200 
de  Musset,  Alfred,  i,  267,  277;  ii,  193, 

250 
de  Pachmann,  Vladimir,  i,  142,  143; 

ii,  42,  43,  167,  206-209,  309 
De  Quincey,  i,  100,  265;  ii,  5,  48,  124 
de  Reszke,  Edouard,  i,  259;  ii,  17,  36, 

45,  47,  53,  54,  5» 
de  Reszke,  Jean,  i,  259;  ii,  17,  36,  43- 

45,  53,  54,  58,  248 
de  Reszke,  Josephine,  ii,  54 
de  Reszke,  Victor,  ii,  54 
de  Swetchine,  Madame,  i,  56 
de  Vay,  Leonard,  i,  147,  148 
de  Vigny,  Alfred,  ii,  108 
de  Vivo,  Signer,  ii,  35 
De  Vries,  Hugo,  i,  318;  ii,  114-116 
Diaz,  i,  242 
Dickens,  Charles,  i,  14,  58,  121,  126, 

197;  ",  7,  32,  169,  177,  192,  230 
Dickson,  Samuel,  i,  87,  90,  91 
Diemer,  Louis,  i,  254 
di  Lanza,  Marquise,  ii,  233 
Dillingham,  Charles,  ii,  144 
Dimali,  ii,  182-187 
di  Murska,  lima,  i,  41;  ii,  34,  35,  80 


INDEX 


Disraeli    (Beaconsfield),    i,    165,    166, 

313;  ii,  288 
Dithmar,  Edward  A.,  ii,  in,  144,  160, 

236 

Dobson,  Austin,  i,  185 
Doeme,  Zoltan,  ii,  59 
Dohan,  Michael,  i,  138 
Dollard,  Philip,  i,  82 
Dolmetsch,  Arnold,  ii,  258 
Don  Quixote,  i,  57 
Donne,  Laura,  i,  258 
Dore,  Gustave,  i,  56,  57,  267 
Dorvals,  the,  ii,  36 
Dostoievsky,  i,  92,  175,  270;  ii,  96,  131, 

133,  135,  232,  235,  277,  306 
Dougherty,  Charles,  i,  137 
Dougherty,  Daniel,  i,  120,  134,  136,  137 
Dougherty,  Hughey,  i,  85;  ii,  20,  154 
Dougherty,  William,  i,  47 
Doutreleau,  Leopold,  i,  263 
Dowden,  Edward,  i,  56 
Dramatic  critics,  ii,  144-147 
Dreiser,  Theodore,  ii,  172 
Drew,  Georgia,  i,  68 
Drew,  John,  i,  66,  68,  73 
Drew,  Mrs.  John,  i,  68,  71,  73,  84;   ii, 

152 

Drews,  Arthur,  i,  163 
Drexel,  Harges  &  Cie.,  i,  220,  230 
Dreyfus,  i,  168 
Dubois,  Professor,  ii,  114 
Dubois,  Theodore,  i,  258 
Ducamp,  Maxime,  ii,  250 
Duffy,  i,  21 

Dumas,  Alexandre,  ii,  238 
Dumas  (fils),  i,  278;   ii,  161,  231 
du  Maurier,  George,  i,  169,  313 
Dundreary  (the  character),  i,  69,  70 
Dunsmore,  John,  i,  265 
Dupre,  Jules,  i,  242 
Duse,  Eleanora,  i,  274;    ii,  no,  145, 

148,  160 

Dutton,  William  D.,  i,  204,  309 
Dutton,  William  H.,  i,  204 
Dvorak,  Dr.  Antonin,  ii,  41,  65-68,  99 

Eames,  Emma,  ii,  36,  45,  50,  53 
Earlom,  Richard,  i,  43 
Edison,  Thomas  A.,  i,  245 
Egan,  Maurice,  ii,  38,  227 
Egoists,  ii,  214,  253 


Eliot,  George,  i,  187;   ii,  193,  264 

Ellis,  Charles  A.,  ii,  36 

Ellis,  Havelock,  i,  57,   194,  216,  250; 

ii,  117,  175,243,246,247 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  i,  9,  55,  100, 

US,  197,  315;   »,  121,  134,  140,  255 
Emerson,  Mrs.  R.  W.,  i,  277 
Engelke,  Leopold,  i,  64,  141,  199 
English,  Miss,  i,  174 
Epstein,  i,  274 
Ernst,  William,  i,  133 
Essipova,  Annette,  i,  154;  ii,  55 
Etude,  The,  i,  202;  ii,  215 
Evans,  Frank,  ii,  14 
Evans,  Lingwood,  ii,  191 
Evelyn  Innes,  ii,  227-229 
Everly,  Adam,  i,  83 
Exposition  of  1878,  Paris,  i,  237-241 

Fairmount  Park,  Philadelphia,  i,  86, 

96-100 

Falstaff  (the  character),  ii,  47 
Fantin-Latour,  i,  267 
Farnum,  Peter,  i,  108-112,  115,  116 
Faunce,  Miss,  i,  21 
Fechter,  Charles,  i,  71 
Felix,  M.  and  Mme.,  ii,  156,  157,  195 
Fenians,  the,  i,  25,  30,  31 
Fenton,   Dr.  Thomas  H.,  i,   173;    ii, 

23,  24 

Fenton,  Mrs.  T.  H.,  ii,  24 
Ferber,  Edna,  ii,  174 
Ferguson,  Eleanor  Garrigue,  ii,  24 
Ferris,  Mrs.  Genevieve,  ii,  9 
Fetherston,  Ferdinand,  i,  138,  198,  229 
Finck,  Henry  T.,  ii,  16,  21,  66 
Finelli's,  i,  52,  122,  158 
Fischer,  Emil,  ii,  34,  45,  65,  259 
Fisher,  William  Arms,  ii,  66 
Fiske,  Harrison  Grey,  ii,  90 
Fiske,  Minnie  Maddern,  ii,  90,  159 
Flandrin,  i,  267 
Flaubert,  Gustave,  i,  49,  129,  239,  268- 

270,  277;    ii,  37,  i io,  130,  137,  152, 

169,  179,  198,  199,  232,  234,  249,  250 
Fleming,  Thomas,  ii,  189 
Floersheim,  Otto,  ii,  8,  13,  18-21 
Flower  mutation,  ii,  114-116 
Foerster-Nietzsche,  Elizabeth,  ii,  225 
Fog,  ii,  196 
Forain,  i,  268 


3i6 


INDEX 


Forbes,  Dr.,  i,  309 

Forbes- Robertson,  ii,  150,  151,  272 

Forbes- Robertson,  Mrs.,  ii,  272 

Ford,  James  L.,  ii,  95 

Forrest,  Edwin,  i,  37,  84 

Foster,  Stephen,  ii,  67 

Fotterall,  Fred,  i,  82,  83,  118 

Fortuny,  i,  45;   ii,  163 

Fourcaud,  ii,  248 

Fowler,  Professor,  i,  136 

Fox,  Daniel  M.,  i,  21,  88,  129,  155 

Fox,  Henry  Korn,  i,  21,  130 

Fox,  John,  i,  21 

Fox  Sisters,  the,  i,  103 

Fox,  William  H.,  i,  21 

Fragonard,  i,  291 

Franct,  Anatole,  i,  168,   192,  266;    ii, 

122,  133,  214,  216,  226,  235 
Franklin,  Benjamin,  i,  277 
Franko,  Jeanne,  i,  253 
Frematad,  Olive,  ii,  33,  37,  40,  45,  46, 

57,58 

Freshpond  crematory,  ii,  221,  222 
Friedheim,  ii,  7,  71 
Friedmann,  ii,  28 
Frohman,  Charles,  ii,  33 
Frohman,  Daniel,  ii,  91,  153,  233 
Frothingham,  George,  ii,  153 
Fulbert,  Henry,  ii,  217-223 
Fulbert,  Mrs.  H.,  ii,  218,  220 
Fuller,  Henry  B.,  i,  270 
Fyles,  Franklin,  ii,  no,  144 

Gabler,  Ernest,  ii,  22 

Gadski,  ii,  19,  36 

Gaertner,  Carl,  i,  140,  142-149 

Gaertner,  Carl,  Jr.,  i,  145 

Gaertner,  Louis,  i,  140,  145 

Gainsborough,  i,  47;   ii,  205 

Galli-Marie,  i,  253;   ii,  155 

Galsworthy,  John,  ii,  126,  131 

Gambetta,  i,  238,  239 

Gandara,  i,  243 

Garden,  Mary,  ii,  37 

Garrigue  family,  the,  ii,  24,  25 

Garrigue,  Rudolph,  ii,  24 

Garrigue- Mott,  Madame  Alice,  ii,  71 

Gasslein,  Joseph,  i,  80,  81 

Gatti-Casazza,  Giulio,  ii,  17,  31,  40 

Gauguin,  Paul,  i,  241;   ii,  163,  165,  241 

Gaultier,  Jules,  i,  8;   ii,  247 


Gautier,    Theophile,    i,    55,    120,    134, 

278;   ii,  12,  249 
Geneva,  i,  275 
George,  Grace,  ii,  272 
George,  Henry,  ii,  38 
Gerardy,  ii,  14 
Gericke,  ii,  70 
Germon,  Effie,  i,  41,  84 
Gerome,  i,  48,  239,  240,  243,  268 
Geyer,  Benjamin,  i,  167 
Geyer,  Ludwig,  i,  166,  167 
Gibbons,  Cardinal  James,  i,  29,  60 
Gibbons,  James,  i,  15,  23-33,  5*1  137 
Gibbons,  Susan,  i,  52,  53 
Gibson,  Henry  C.,  i,  45 
Giddens,  George,  ii,  47 
Gigoux,  Jean,  i,  267 
Gilbert,  John,  ii,  148 
Gilbert,  W.  S.,  ii,  61,  266 
Gilder,  Jeannette,  ii,  215 
Gilman,  Lawrence,  ii,  241 
Glackens,  ii,  162,  171 
Glass,  Montagu,  ii,  174 
Godard,  Benjamin,  i,  258,  259 
Godowsky,   Leopold,   i,    143,    167;    ii, 

42,  207-209 
Goethe,  i,  55,  65,  187,  250;  ii,  213,  225, 

226,  235 

Goldman,  Emma,  ii,  244 
Goldmark,  Rubin,  ii,  66 
Goncourt.     See  de  Goncourt 
Goodrich,  Wallace,  i,  280-287 
Gosse,  Edmund,  ii,  159 
Gottschalk,  Louis  M.,  i,  38,  40,  247 
Gounod,  Charles,  i,  259;   ii,  248 
Gourmont.     See  de  Gourmont 
Goya,  i,  241;   ii,  71,  242,  246,  248 
Grandjean,  M.  and  Mme.,  i,  225,  226, 

239 

Grant,  General,  i,  115,  122 
Grau,  Maurice,  ii,  17,  35,  47,  155 
Greek  church,  the,  i,  34 
Green,  Valentine,  i,  43 
Gregg,  Frederick  James,  ii,  203 
Gregg,  Joshua,  i,  152 
Gregory,  Lady,  ii,  247,  262 
Grevy,  Jules,  i,  238 
Grieg,  Edvard,  ii,  70 
Griffin,  Martin  I.  J.,  i,  20 
Gross,  Haller,  i,  118 
Grout,  Dr.  Franklin,  ii,  249 


INDEX 


Grout,  Madame  Franklin,  ii,  249 
Guard,  William  J.,  ii,  59 
Guerbois,  Cafe,  i,  244 
Guerin.     See  de  Guerin 
Guilbert,  Yvette,  ii,  196,  197 
Guillaumin,  i,  267 
Guy,  Henry,  ii,  69 
Guyot,  Yves,  ii,  248 

Haase,  Friedrich,  ii,  150 

Hablemann,  Theodore,  ii,  34 

Hackett  (the  elder),  i,  36;   ii,  47 

Hackett,  Francis,  ii,  203 

Haden,  Seymour,  i,  45 

Halanzier,  i,  254 

Hale,  Philip,  i,  253;  ii,  36,  37,  190,  198 

Halevy,  i,  170,  277 

Hall,  Gilman,  ii,  173 

Halpert,  Samuel,  ii,  163 

Hals,  Franz,  i,  86,  245 

Hamilton,  i,  47 

Hammerstein,  Oscar,  ii,  61-64,  *68 

Hammond,  Clara  (Marquise  di  Lanza), 

ii,  233 

Hamsun,  Knut,  ii,  191 
Hancock,  General,  i,  15 
Handel,  George  Frederick,  i,  105 
Handwriting,  i,  87,  90,  92,  123 
Hanlon-Lees,  the,  ii,  154 
Harland,  Henry,  ii,  171 
Harnack,  i,  163 
Harris,  Victor,  ii,  146 
Harrison,  Frederic,  i,  230 
Harrison,  Louis,  ii,  63 
Harte,  Bret,  ii,  172 
Hartley,  Marsden,  ii,  163 
Hassam,  Childe,  ii,  162,  170 
Hassler,  Mark,  i,  188 
Hatzfeldt,  Countess,  ii,  30 
Hauk,  Minnie,  i,  42;   ii,  34,  154 
Haverly,  Colonel  Jack,  ii,  62 
Hazeltine,  ii,  ill 
Hazen,  i,  17 

Hazlehurst,  Harry,  i,  130 
Hazlitt,  ii,  124,  177 
Healey,  Thomas,  i,  240 
Heenan,  John  C.,  i,  278 
Heine,    Heinrich,    i,    168,    278,    313; 

ii,  28,  224,  287 
Heinrich,  Anna  Schubert,  i,   150-152, 

156 


Heinrich,  Julia,  i,  159,  160 

Heinrich,  Max,  i,   148-154,   156,   158- 

160,  199,  309;   ii,  14,  25,  92,  149 
Heller,  i,  102 

Helvetius,  Madame,  i,  277 
Hemynge,  Bracebridge,  i,  121 
Henderson,  Archibald,  ii,  261 
Henderson,  William  J.,  ii,  16,  21,  60, 

88,  173 

Heney,  Francis,  ii,  141 
Hennequin,  i,  6,  206 
Henner,  i,  239 
Hennig,  Rudolph,  i,  145 
Henri,  Robert,  ii,  163 
Henry,  O.,  ii,  169,  171-173,  191 
Henschel,  George,  i,  153 
Herald,  New  York,  ii,  112 
Herbert,  Victor,  ii,  26,  38,  65,  71,  146, 

154 

Herbert,  Mrs.  Victor,  ii,  25 
Herbert-Foerster,  Theresa,  ii,  39 
Hermann,  S.  L.,  i,  189 
Herne,  ii,  160 
Hertel,  "Pop,"  i,  88 
Hertz,  Alfred,  ii,  37 
Hervieu,  Paul,  ii,  243,  244,  253,  265 
Hetherington,  Albert  J.,  i,  81,  158 
Hewitt,  William,  i,  47,  49,  91 
Hill,  Barton,  i,  73,  84;  ii,  152 
Hiller,  Ferdinand,  i,  41 
Hinrichs,  Gustav,  ii,  66,  69 
Hirsh,  Max,  ii,  59 
Hobbes,  John  Oliver,  ii,  229,  245 
Hoffmann,  E.  T.  W.,  ii,  134,  215 
Holbein,  i,  268 
Holland,  ii,  113,  114 
Holland,  George,  i,  84 
Holmes,  Will,  ii,  154 
Homer,  Winslow,  ii,  206 
Honyker,  Mark,  i,  20 
Hooper,  Lucy  Hamilton,  i,  194,  248, 

249 

Hoppin,  Amy,  ii,  227 
Horace,  i,  63 

Houdin,  Robert,  i,  102,  103 
Hough,  Mrs.  Isaac,  ii,  23 
Howard,  Joseph,  Jr.,  i,  6;   ii,  88,  175 
Howells,  W.  D.,  i,  270;  ii,  n,  171,  240 
Hoyt,  Charles,  ii,  90,  153 
Hueffer,  Franz,  i,  199 
Hughes,  Rupert,  ii,  171,  173,  191 


INDEX 


Hugo,  Victor,  i,  176,  238,  267,  269,  277 

Hummel,  i,  141,  143,  155 

Huneker,  John  (father  of  author),  i,  18, 

35-40,  43-45,  47,  49,  53,  66,  68,  154, 

173,  1 88,  202 
Huneker,  John  (grandfather  of  author), 

i,  18-21 
Huneker,    John    (brother   of   author), 

i,  20,  68,  176,  206,  213;   ii,  148 
Huneker,    Mary   Gibbons   (mother  of 

author),  i,  13,  27,  51,  53,  54,  127, 

154,  176,  177,  229;   ii,  18 
Huneker,    Paul,    i,   23,    83,    104,   205; 

ii,  6 

Hunt,  Holman,  i,  186 
Hunt,  Joe,  i,  283 
Hunt,  Richard,  i,  283 
Huntington,  Archer  M.,  ii,  71 
Huxley,  i,  192 
Huysmans,    Joris-Karel,    i,    10,     127, 

191,  244,  261,  273;    ii,  117,  118,  194, 

199-228 
Hynemann,  Herman,  i,  240,  252 

lago  (the  character),  ii,  48,  49 

Ibsen,  i,   72,  204,  242,  316;    ii,   135- 

137,    140,    147,    159-161,    191,   217, 

230,  231,  236,  265,  266,  275 
Iconoclasts,  ii,  214,  251-253,  266,  273 
Impressionists,  i,    186,   240-243,   268- 

271 

Ingersoll,  Robert,  i,  94,  95;  ii,  93 
Inness,  George,  ii,  205,  206 
Irish  literature,  ii,  203,  204 
Irving,  Henry,  i,  85,  313;    ii,  48,  144, 

149,  150,  152 

Irving,  Washington,  ii,  26,  72,  169 
Iturbide,  Prince,  i,  83 

Jackson,  John  T.,  ii,  16 

James,  Henry,  i,  78,  89,  121,  178,  209, 

227,  239,  270;  ii,  130,  131,  142,  171, 

198,  242,  249,  266 
James,  Louis,  i,  83 
James,  William,  i,  187,  207;    ii,   109, 

1 1 8,  204,  214,  247,  253,  306 
Jardin  Mabille,  the,  i,  220-222 
Jarvis,  Charles  H.,  i,  42,  140-143,  155, 

156,  158,  198,  199 
Jerrold,  Douglas,  i,  91 
Jesuits,  the,  i,  55 


Jewish  humour,  i,  313 

Jews  and  Judaism,  i,  164-172 

Joachim,  i,  145;   ii,  99 

John,  Augustus,  ii,  142,  247 

Johnson,  Andrew,  i,  30 

Johnson,  John  G.,  i,  133,  134 

Johnson,  Lionel,  ii,  243 

Johnson,  Samuel,  i,  94;  ii,  3,  8 

Joliffe,  Mrs.,  i,  128 

Joly,  ii,  36 

Jomini,  i,  207 

Joncieres,  Victorien,  i,  259 

Jones,  Arthur  Henry,  i,  73 

Jones,  Mr.  (owner  of  the  Times},  ii,  21 

Joseffy,  Rafael,  i,  138,  143,  153,  165, 
166,  185,  247,  256;  ii,  14,  25,  41-43, 
54,  55,  65,  71,  202,  203,  207,  214,  260 

Joyce,  James,  ii,  203,  247,  248,  265 

Julian's  art  school,  i,  240 

Junge,  Henry,  ii,  71 

Kalisch,  Paul,  ii,  40 
Kappers,  Dr.  C.  U.  Ariens,  ii,  114 
Karageorgovich,  Peter,  i,  307 
Karenine,  Madame  Waldemar,  i,  250 
Karl,  Tom,  ii,  153 
Karr,  Alphonse,  ii,  250 
Keats,  ii,  125,  277-280 
Keene,  Laura,  i,  69 
Keeton,  A.  E.,  i,  169 
"Keg,  The,"  i,  80,  81 
Keller,  John  W.,  ii,  88,  93,  94 
Kelly,  Father,  i,  58 
Kelly,  Jimmy,  i,  60 
Kemper,  "Pop,"  i,  100 
Kendrick,  Beryl,  i,  98,  99 
Kent,  Rockwell,  ii,  163 
Keppel,  i,  44 

Kerker,  Gustave,  ii,  62,  63 
Kindler,  Hans,  i,  171 
King,  Katie,  i,  103 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  ii,  131,  151,  152 
Kipling,  Mrs.  Rudyard,  ii,  151,  152 
Klafsky,  ii,  36 

Kleeberg,  Clotilde,  i,  252,  259 
Klindworth,  Karl,  ii,  70 
Kneisel,  Franz,  ii,  68,  70 
Knortz,  Karl,  ii,  224 
Kortwright,  Mr.,  i,  121 
Krehbiel,  H.  E.,  i,  152;    ii,  16,  19,  21, 
25,  31,  147,  190 


INDEX 


Kriegelstein,  i,  224 
Kuehl,  John,  ii,  71 
Kuypers,  Elizabeth,  ii,  114 

Lablache,  ii,  47 

Labori,  Ferdinand,  ii,  167 

Labouchere,  Henry,  ii,  177,  249 

Lacordaire,  Pere,  i,  51,  56 

La  Farge,  John,  ii,  241,  242 

Laffan,  William  M.,  ii,  no,  166,  244, 

245 

Lagrange,  Madame,  i,  39 
Lahn,  ii,  182-185 
Lake  Constance,  i,  275 
Lamb,  Charles,  i,  43,  169;   ii,  124,  261 
Lambdin,  Dr.,  i,  199 
Lamenais,  Abbe,  i,  51 
Landor,  i,  94,  214 
Lang,  B.  J.,  i,  247 
Lankester,  Sir  E.  Ray,  ii,  115 
Lassalle,  Ferdinand,  i,  no;  ii,  27-30 
Lassalle,  Jean,  i,  259;   ii,  45 
Lassere,  Henri,  i,  237 
Laurens,  i,  239 
Law,  Ernest,  i,  173 
Law  studies,  i,  118-124,  129 
Lawrence,  Atkins,  i,  70 
Lawson,  Ernest,  ii,  162,  202,  206 
Le  Blanc,  Georgette,  ii,  119 
Le  Blanc,  Maurice,  ii,  120 
Lecky,  i,  222 
Lefebvre,  Jules,  i,  48,  239,  240,  267; 

ii,  117,  248 

Lefevre,  M.,  i,  222-224,  248>  258,  265 
Lehmann,  Lilli,  i,  150;    ii,  25,  34,  36, 

38,  40,  45,  46 
Leidy,  i,  288;   ii,  116 
Leifels,  Felix,  ii,  70 
Leighton,  i,  186 
Lepage,  Bastien,  i,  289;   ii,  163 
Leschetizky,  ii,  54,  55 
Leslie,  Mrs.  Frank,  ii,  12,  157 
Letters,  autograph,  ii,  224-250 
Lever,  Charles,  ii,  260 
Levey,  E.  J.,  ii,  16 
Levy  (cornettist),  i,  97 
Lewes,  George  Henry,  i,  187;   ii,  193 
Liberty,  personal,  i,  318,  319 
Lichtenberg,  Leopold,  i,  95;   ii,  65 
Liebling,  Leonard,  ii,  16 
Lienau'sj  cafe,  ii,  7,  8,  25 


Lincoln,  Abraham,  i,  15,  28,  135,  178 
Lingard,  Alice  Dunning,  i,  312 
Lippincott,  W.  H.,  i,  240,  242 
Listen,  ii,  14 
Liszt,  Franz,  i,  143,  146,  147,  166,  205, 

240,  246,  249,  250,  253,  298,  299;   ii, 

25,  28,  42,  56,   158,   177,  207,  208, 

213,  239,  259,  260,  284 
Liszt,  Franz  (biography),  ii,  232,  233, 

260 

Litvinne,  Felia,  ii,  57,  58 
Lloyd  George,  ii,  263 
Locke,  Charles  E.,  ii,  38 
Lodge,  George  Cabot,  i,  280;    ii,  209, 

210 

Lodge,  Henry  Cabot,  ii,  239 
Loeb,  Professor  Jacques,  ii,  115 
Loeffler,  Charles  Martin,  ii,  68 
London,  Jack,  ii,  134,  172 
Longfellow,  i,  100 
Lord,  Chester  S.,  ii,  109,  in 
Lord's  Prayer  in  B,  The,  ii,  215 
Lorme,  Madame  Lola,  ii,  268 
Lorraine,  Claude,  i,  44,  54,  243;  ii,  205 
Loti,  Pierre,  ii,  128 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  ii,  210 
Loyson,  Paul  Hyacinthe,  ii,  253 
Lublinski,  i,  163 
Lucas,  John  and  William,  i,  138 
Lucette,  Madeline,  ii,  154 
Liichow's  restaurant,  ii,  8,  25,  42,  74, 

173 

Luehr's  cafe,  ii,  39 
Luks,  George,  ii,  64,  162,  171,  202 

Macaulay,  i,  43 

McCaull  Company,  the,  ii,  154 

McClellan,  Charles,  i,  195 

McCloud,  Richard,  i,  30-32 

McCook,  Rev.,  i,  288 

McCullough,  John,  i,  80;  ii,  14,  149 

McDonald,  ii,  153 

MacDowell,  Edward  A.,  ii,  68,  92,  158 

McFadden,  Jack,  i,  158 

McGowan,  Dennis,  i,  157,  158 

McHale,  Archbishop,  i,  27 

Mackay,  F.  F.,  i,  83,  85 

McKee,  Frank,  ii,  90 

Mackey,  Robert,  ii,  255 

McKinley,  William,  ii,  263 

McLellan,  C.  M.  S.,  ii,  112,  144,  214 


320 


INDEX 


MacMahon,  Marshal,  i,  238;   ii,  6 
McMurtrie,  Richard,  i,  120 
McQuirk,  Michael,  i,  32 
Macready,  i,  37;   ii,  149 
MacVeagh,  Wayne,  i,  134 
M'lle  New  York,  i,  191 ;  ii,  189-195,  225 
Madox-Brown,  Ford,  i,  186 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  i,  207;   ii,  118- 

121,  133,  147,  191,213,247,265 
Magic,  i,  102-106 
Mallarme,  Stephane,  i,  208,  251,  273, 

274;  ii,  179,  194 
Mancinelli,  Luigi,  ii,  36 
Manet,  Edouard,  i,  48,  187,  239-245, 

251,  267-271;   ii,  163,  164,  179,  235 
Mansfield,  Richard,  i,  70;   ii,  144,  149, 

150,  236-^38,  257,  271,  272 
Mapleson,  Henry,  ii,  32 
Mapleson,  Lionel,  ii,  32 
Maretzek,  Max,  ii,  31 
Margulies,  Adele,  ii,  65 
Marie  Antoinette,  i,  169 
Marin,  John,  ii,  163 
Mario,  M.,  ii,  73-87 
Markart,  Hans,  i,  238 
Marlowe,  Julia,  i,  71;  ii,  152,  153 
Marquis,  Don,  ii,  175 
Marsh,  Edward,  ii,  203 
Martin,  John,  i,  43,  45,  139,  267;  ii,  103 
Martucci,  Giuseppe,  i,  275 
Marvell,  Andrew,  i,  99 
Marx,  Karl,  i,  no,  242;  ii,  27,  265,  267 
Marzials,  Theophile,  i,  185 
Masaryk,  Professor  Thomas  Garrigue, 

ii,  24 

jVlaskelyne,  i,  103 
Mason,  William,  ii,  25 
Massart,  Madame,  i,  248 
Massen,  Louis,  ii,  90 
Massenet,  Jules,  i,  258,  259;  ii,  248 
Materna,  ii,  36 
Mather,  Frank,  Jr.,  ii,  164 
Mathews,  Charles,  i,  70,  84 
Mathias,  Georges,  i,  40,  143,  249,  263 
Matisse,  Henri,  ii,  163-165 
Matrai  Pista  (Peter  Matus),  i,  147,  148 
Matthew,  Father,  i,  27 
Matthews,  Brander,  ii,  171,  248 
Matthison,  Wynne,  ii,  152 
Matzenauer,  Margaret,  ii,  33,  96 
Maupassant.     See  de  Maupassant 


Maurel,  Victor,  i,  72,  120;  ii,  36,  47-52 

Maurice,  Arthur  Bartlett,  ii,  170 

Mawson  family,  the,  ii,  24 

Maxim's,  Paris,  i,  280-289 

May,  Fred,  i,  94 

Meade,  General,  i,  138 

Mediums,  i,  103 

Meehan,  Patrick  J.,  i,  25 

Meissonier,  i,  48,  239,  240,  242,  245; 

ii,  163 

Melba,  i,  41;  ii,  35,  36,  50,  53 
Melomaniacs,  ii,  196,  215,  240 
Meltzer,  Charles  Henry,  ii,  159,  237, 

238 

Mencken,  H.  L.,  ii,  214,  215 
Mendelssohn,  i,  141,  165,  170;  ii,  69 
Mendenhall,  Woody,  i,  110-112 
Mendes,  Catulle,  ii,  117,  248 
Mendoza.     See  de  Mendoza 
Mengelberg,  Willem,  ii,  113,  114 
Menken,  Ada  Isaacs,  i,  278 
Mercantile  Library,  the,  i,  185,  187, 188 
Meredith,   George,  i,   185;    ii,  27-29, 

176,  266 

Meredith,  H.  E.,  i,  73 
Merlin,  i,  208 
Merrill,  Stuart,  ii,  119 
Merwin,  Samuel,  ii,  174 
Meryon,  ii,  245 

Mesdag,  W.  W.,  i,  267;  ii,  248 
Metcalf,  Willard,  ii,  162,  205 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  fire,  ii,  39 
Meyerbeer,  i,  165,  166 
Meynell,  Alice,  i,  196;  ii,  124,  178,  210 
Mezzotints,  i,  43 
Michel,  Louise,  i,  237 
Michelangelo,  i,  291,  294 
Milan  of  Serbia,  i,  305 
Miles,  George,  i,  177 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  ii,  138 
Millais,  John,  i,  186 
Millet,  i,  265;  ii,  163 
Mills,  S.  B.,  ii,  9,  25 
Milton,  ii,  4,  235 
Miolan-Carvalho,  i,  253 
Mirabeau,  i,  7 

Miramelli-Mario,  Madame,  ii,  73-85 
Mirbeau,  Octave,  ii,  215 
Mitchell,  Edward  Page,  ii,  in 
Modjeska,  Helena,  i,  274;   ii,  43,  145, 

152 


INDEX 


Monet,  Claude,  i,  187,  239,  241,  242, 

244,  267,  269-271;   ii,  164 
Montaigne,  i,  55,  129,  192 
Montez,  Lola,  i,  275,  278 
Monticelli,  i,  242,  254,  272;   ii,  162 
Montigny-Remaury,  Madame,  i,  255 
Montmartre  cemetery,  i,  278 
Montmorenci  Castle,  i,  263 
Montsalvat,  ii,  102-108 
Moody,  Helen  Watterson,  ii,  88 
Moody,  Winfield  Scott,  ii,  88 
Moore,  Albert,  i,  186 
Moore,  Mrs.  Bloomfield  H.,  ii,  178 
Moore,  George,  i,  5,  24,  32,  126,  129, 

182,  239,  251,  313;  ii,  126,  176,  177, 

203,  212,  227-233,  236,  258, 265 
Moran,  Peter,  i,  47 
Mordaunt,  Frank,  i,  84,  85;   ii,  14 
More,  Paul  Elmer,  i,  127;   ii,  235 
Moreau,  Gustave,  i,  267 
Morgan,  Anne,  ii,  37 
Morin,  Pilar,  ii,  189 
Morizot,  Berthe,  i,  267 
Morning  Advertiser,  The,  ii,  91 
Morris,  Clara,  ii,  155 
Morris,  William,  ii,  263 
Morse,  Leila,  ii,  14 
Moss,  Frank,  i,  240 
Most,  Johann,  ii,  244 
Moulds'  cafe,  ii,  10-14,  J4-6 
Mounet-Sully,  Paul,  ii,  150,  243 
Mozart,  i,  155,  169;   ii,  201 
Mugnier,  Abbe,  ii,  118 
Munch,  Edvard,  ii,  191 
Murger,  Henri,  i,  221 
Murray,  Sam,  i,  141 
Music,  i,  189;   ii,  201 
Music-critics,  i,  199;   ii,  16,  17,  20 
Music  Teachers'  National  Association, 

ii,  1 8 

Musical  Courier,  London,  ii,  122 
Musical  Courwr,  New  York,  ii,  8,  9, 

18-22,  89,  91,  215,  257 
Musin,  Ovid,  ii,  14 
Musset.     See  de  Musset 
Myers,  Jerome,  ii,  171 
Mystery  in  art,  i,  274 

Naples,  i,  300-302,  313,  314 
Napoleon  I,  i,  248,  318 
Napoleon  III,  i,  48,  238;  ii,  28 


Natalie,  Queen  of  Serbia,  i,  305 
National  Conservatory  of  Music,  ii,  40, 

65-69 

Nazimova,  Alia,  ii,  159,  237,  244 
Neagle,  Henry,  ii,  62,  89 
Negri,  ii,  182,  184,  185 
Negro  music,  ii,  67-69 
Neilson,  Adelaide,  i,  80,  183;    ii,  I52f 

154,  1 66,  167 

Neilson,  Francis,  i,  312,  313 
Neresheimer,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  August,  ii, 

92,  93 

Nethersole,  Olga,  ii,  239,  243 
Neupert,  Edmund,  ii,  7,  70,  71 
Newman,  Cardinal,  i,  47,  169,  230 
New  York,  ii,  5-9,  25,  26,  72,  148,  162, 

163,  169-174,  211 
New  York  of  the  Novelists,  ii,  170 
Nicolini,  i,  256 

Niemann,  Albert,  i,  159;   ii,  13,  34,  45 
Nietzsche,  Madame  Foerster,  ii,  225 
Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  i,  5,  67,  241,  242; 

ii,  3,   106,   123,   135-137,   159,  209, 

213,   224,   225,   234,  235,  246,  265, 

266 

Nikisch,  ii,  40 

Nilsson,  Christine,  i,  42;   ii,  34 
Nirdlinger,  Charles  Frederic,  ii,  112 
Nolan,  Dr.  E.  J.,  i,  79,  310,  311 
Nordau,  Max,  ii,  241,  243 
Nordica,  Lillian,  ii,  17,  36,  45,  57-60 
Norris,  Frank,  i,  84,  270;   ii,  169,  240 
Norris,  G.  Heide,  i,  120,  125,  173 

O'Brien,  Fitz- James,  ii,  n,  171 
Offenbach,  Jacques,  i,   122,  221,  236; 

ii,  154 

Okey,  Margaret,  ii,  167 
Old  Fogy,  ii,  215 
O'Neill,  John,  i,  25,  31 
Opera,  i,  40-42;    ii,  30-41,  44~47,  53, 

57,  61-63 

Operatic  manager,  the,  ii,  35,  36 
O'Ragan,  Count,  ii,  283 
Ord,  George,  i,  47 
Orlenev,  ii,  237,  244 
Osborn,  Professor  Henry  Fairfield,  ii, 

H5 

O'Shaugnessy,  Arthur,  i,  185 
Ossian,  i,  198;   ii,  134 
O'Sullivan,  Vincent,  ii,  265 


322 


INDEX 


Oswald,  ii,  99-108 
Ouida,  i,  58,  125 

Pachmann.     See  de  Pachmann 
Paderewski,  Jan   Ignace,  i,   166,   276; 

ii,  42,  43,  54-56 
Paganini,  i,  147,  166,  253 
Palladino,  Eusapia,  i,  103 
Palmer,  Minnie,  ii,  154 
Parepa-Rosa,  ii,  31,  34 
Paris,  i,  205,  218-229,  236-243,  250- 

252,  260,  261,  278,  279;   ii,  119,  307 
Parmentier,  Florian,  ii,  248 
Parry,  William,  i,  77,  108,  112 
Parsons,  Albert  Ross,  ii,  207 
Pascal,  i,  5,  319,  320 
Pasdeloup,  Jacques,  i,  251,  253 
Pater,  Walter,  i,  22,  55,  120,  125,  179, 

185,  250;   ii,  123,  148,  201,  212,  235 
Patti,  Adelina,  i,  41,  42,  84,  94,  256, 

259;  ",  33,  34,  38,  60,  155 
Patti,  Amalia,  i,  41;  ii,  31,  34 
Patti,  Carlo,  i,  41 
Patti,  Carlotta,  i,  40-42,  278;    ii,  78- 

80,82 

Patti,  Salvatore,  i,  41 
Payne  brothers,  the,  i,  79 
Payne,  Wiliam  Morton,  ii,  159 
Peale,  i,  48;   ii,  205 
Pearce,  Charles  S.,  i,  240,  242 
Peck,  Harry  Thurston,  ii,  252 
Penn  Square,  Philadelphia,  i,  78 
Pepper,  i,  103 
Perdriaux,  Emile,  i,  83 
Pere  Lachaise  cemetery,  i,  277,  278 
Perry,  the  magician,  i,  105 
Perugini,  ii,  38 
Philadelphia,  i,  74-83,  87-90,  96-100, 

140,  308-312;   ii,  23,  24 
Phillipp,  Isidor,  ii,  248 
Phrenology,  i,  135 
Piano-playing,  i,  184,  189 
Piano-study,  i,  154-157,  226,  249,  261- 

263 
Piano-teaching,  i,  200,  201 ;   ii,  66,  68, 

69 

Picabia,  ii,  163 

Picasso,  ii,  142,  163 

Pick,  Monsignor,  i,  292-299 

Pinero,  Arthur,  i,  72 ;  ii,  239,  252 

Pinuti,  ii,  182-187 


Piranesi,  i,  43,  139 

Pissarro,  i,  48,  242,  267,  270 

Pius  X,  i,  290-299;   ii,  112 

Plancon,  Pol,  ii,  36,  45,  47,  53 

Plato,  i,  129,  316 

Plympton,  Eben,  ii,  152 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  i,  10,  36,  38,  43,  55, 

77,  100,  123,  245;   ii,  103,  121,  134, 

169,  215,  232,  235,  236 
Poles  and  Poland,  ii,  43 
Pollard,  Percival,  ii,  112,  204 
Pond,  Major,  i,  95 
Ponisi,  Madame,  ii,  148 
Ponsonby,  Captain,  i,  248 
Pope  Piux  X,  i,  290-299;   ii,  112 
Porter,  Jane,  ii,  43 
Porter,  Sydney,  ii,  169,  171-173,  191 
Portuguese  Annie,  i,  179,  180 
Potter,  Mrs.,  ii,  238 
Pound,  Ezra,  ii,  258 
Poussin,  J.  B.,  i,  243 
Powers,  Thomas,  ii,  189 
Pre-Raphaelitic  movement,  the,  i,  186 
Presser,   Theodore,   i,   201,    202,   309; 

ii,  8,  307 

Price,  Lizzie,  i,  71,  73 
Prime-Stevenson,  Irenaeus,  ii,  21 
Probst,  i,  123 

Proudhon,  Joseph,  i,  no,  236,  277 
Prume,  i,  147 

Przybyszewski,  Stanislaw,  ii,  191 
Puck,  ii,  112,  113 
Pugh,  T.  B.,  i,  95 

Quakers,  the,  i,  76 

Quinet,  Edgar,  i,  208 

Quinn,  John,  ii,  141,  142,  203,  217,  230, 

242,  247,  265 
Quinton,  ii,  127 

Rabelais,  i,  55,  120 

Raconteur,  The,  ii,  19,  122 

Racowitza,    Prince    and    Princess,    ii, 

27-30 

Raeburn,  ii,  205 
Raffaelli,  i,  266,  268,  272 
Ramsey,  Milne,  i,  240 
Randegger,  Signor,  ii,  149 
Raphael,  i,  47,  291,  292;   ii,  201 
Reading,  a  scheme  of,  i,  126-129 
Realism,  i,  270 


INDEX 


323 


Reamer,  Lawrence,  ii,  in,  144 

Recorder,  The,  ii,  88-94 

Reed,  Roland,  i,  84 

Regnault,  i,  239 

Rehan,  Ada,  i,  83;  ii,  145,  152,  272 

Reich,  Jacques,  ii,  9 

Reinach,  Salomon,  i,  164 

Rejane,  ii,  145,  159 

Rembrandt,  i,  45,  47,  48,  291 ;   ii,  162, 

242 

Remenyi,  i,  146-148 
Remmertz,  Franz,  i,  150 
Renan,  Ernest,  i,  168,  236,  278;   ii,  48, 

137 

Renaud,  Maurice,  i,  280 
Renoir,  Auguste,  i,  242,  270,  272;    ii, 

163 

Reszke.     See  de  Reszke 
Reynolds,  Joshua,  i,  47;   ii,  200,  205 
Rhodes,  John  F.,  ii,  65 
Richards,  Bernard,  i,  168 
Richards,  W.  T.,  i,  47 
Richardson,  Leander,  ii,  90 
Richmond,  Harry,  ii,  155 
Rigaud,  Hyacinthe,  ii,  51 
Rimsky-Korsakoff,  i,  251 
Ritter,  Dr.,  i,  199 
Ritter,  Theodore,  i,  41,  185,  263 
Robertson,  Agnes,  ii,  154 
Robertson,  John  M.,  i,  6 
Robertson,  Tom,  i,  72 
Robinson,  A.  Mary  F.,  ii,  228 
Rodenbach,  Georges,  ii,  119 
Rodin,  Auguste,  i,  187,  274;    ii,  no, 

117,  161,  248 
Rogers,  Ned  (Montezuma),  i,  82,  83, 

118 

Roggenberger,  i,  140 
Rome,  i,  290-299;  ii,  277,  293,  303 
Roosevelt,  Philip,  iif  142 
Roosevelt,   Colonel  Theodore,   i,    135; 

ii,  3,  141,  142,  209,  307 
Rops,  Felicien,  i,  268;   ii,  118,  245 
Rosati,  ii,  182-187 
Roscoe,  i,  19 

Rosenfeld,  Sidney,  ii,  171 
Rosenthal,  Moriz,  i,  275;   ii,  7,  25,  55, 

71 

Rosny,  J.  H.,  Sr.,  ii,  117,  127,  248 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  i,  55,  185,  186 
Rossetti,  William,  i,  195 


Rossi,  ii,  150 

Rossini,  i,  165,  166,  277 

Roth,    Professor    Edward,    i,    62-67, 

105,  3io»  3H 

Rothermel,  Peter  F.,  i,  47 
Rousseau,  J.  J.,  i,  275 
Rousseau,  Theodore,  i,  242 
Rubinstein,  Anton,  i,  40,  142,  143,  169, 

247,  250;   ii,  25,  31,  42,  54,  71,  208, 

309 

Rubinstein,  Nicolas,  i,  153,  246,  247 
Rudensdorff,  Madame,  ii,  149 
Rudolph,  Carl,  i,  154 
Ruff,  General,  i,  138,  240 
Ruff,  John,  138 
Ruff,  Miss,  i,  240 
Rummel,  Franz,  ii,  14,  25 
Runciman,  John,  ii,  117,  255,  262 
Ruskin,  John,  ii,  124,  148 
Russell,  George,  ii,  203 
Russell,  Lillian,  ii,  35 
Ryder,  Albert,  ii,  206 
Ryley,  J.  H.,  ii,  154 

Sada-Yacco,  i,  274 
Saint  Aloysius  of  Gonzaga,  i,  60 
Saint  Augustine,  i,  10,  64 
Sainte-Beuve,  i,  165;    ii,  123,  138,  139, 

213,214 

Saint-Gaudens,  i,  267 
Saint-Hilary,  Dorothea,  ii,  279-305 
Saint-Hilary,  Lewis,  ii,  280-305 
St.  Martin's  Summer,  i,  133,  194,  195  ' 
Saint-Saens,  Camille,  i,  142,  167,  255, 

256,  258;   ii,  54,  249 
Saintsbury,  Professor  George,  i,  56,  185 
Salon  des  Independants  (Paris),  i,  268, 

269 

Salome,  ii,  37 

Salon  of  1879  (Paris),  i,  266-268 
Saltus,  Edgar,  ii,  ii,  13,  171,  172,  204, 

232 

Saltus,  Francis,  ii,  n,  12 
Salvini,  i,  70,  85,  274;   ii,  150 
Sand,  George,  i,  249,  250,  267,  277; 

ii,  193,  240,  250 
Sand,  Solange,  i,  249 
Sandeau,  Jules,  i,  277;   ii,  193 
Sanderson,  Sybil,  i,  258 
Sandier,  Jacob  Kopel,  i,  162,  163 
Sargent,  J.  S.,  i,  243;   ii,  205 


324 


INDEX 


Sartain,  John,  i,  38,  47 

Saturday  Review,  London,  ii,  124 

Sauer,  Emil,  i,  247 

Sauret,  ii,  14 

Sautter's,  i,  42 

Sauvan,  Madame,  i,  190,  191 

Scalchi,  ii,  36,  50 

Scaria,  ii,  36 

Scharwenka,  ii,  25 

Schechter,  Solomon,  i,  163 

Schmiedel,  i,  163 

Schmitt,  Johann  Kaspar,  ii,  135 

Schmitz,  Charles,  i,  141 

Schopenhauer,  Arthur,   i,   51,   55,   57, 

203;   ii,  104,  224 
Schubert,  Franz  (violinist),  i,  145,  153, 

155,  158,  184,  309 
Schulhoff,  Jules,  ii,  308 
Schumann-Heink,  Madame,  ii,  45 
Schutz,  Willy,  ii,  58,  59 
Schuyler,  Montgomery,  ii,  in 
Schwab,  Frederick,  ii,  20,  21,  41,  166, 

167 

Scott,  Clement,  ii,  159 
Scott-Siddons,  Mary  F.,  i,  95,  183;   ii, 

152,  239 

Scribe,  ii,  161,  231 
Sculpture,  i,  274 
Seabrooke,  Tom,  ii,  62 
Second  sight,  i,  102 
Segond-Weber,  ii,  145 
Seidl,  Anton,  ii,  25,  33-35,  38,  40,  41, 

58,  65,  99,  259 

Seidl-Krauss,  Madame,  ii,  41 
Sembrich,  Marcella,  i,  41,  150;    ii,  39, 

43 

Sentz,  Carl,  i,  144,  146,  1 88 
Severine,  M'lle,  ii,  189 
Severn,  John,  ii,  278 
Sgambati,  i,  275;  ii,  284 
Shakespeare,  ii,  49,  121,  137,  147,  201, 

213,  214,  235 

Sharswood,  Judge,  i,  120,  130 
Shaw,  Bernard,  i,  73,  242;  ii,  125,  128, 

129,    131,    139,    147,   159,   229,  238, 

245,  251-276 
Shaw,  Robert,  ii,  257 
Shearer,  i,  265 

Shelley,  Harry  Rowe,  ii,  66,  71 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  i,  196;    ii,  119, 

201,  277,  278,  280 


Sheridan,  W.  E.,  i,  84 

Shofar  Blew  at  Sunset,  The,  i,  170 

Sigerson,  Dora,  ii,  288 

Simmons,  Lew,  ii,  20 

Simons,  Marcius,  ii,  141 

Sisley,  i,  48,  242,  267,  270 

Sisters  of  Mercy,  i,  55 

Sivori,  Camilla,  i,  185,  253 

Sloan,  Charles,  i,  125,  174 

Sloan,  John,  ii,  162,  171 

Smeaton,  John,  i,  49 

Smith,  F.  Hopkinson,  ii,  173,  174 

Smith,  Harry  B.,  ii,  61 

Smith,  Joseph,  ii,  95 

Soldene,  Emily,  i,  312 

Sonneck,  O.  G.,  i,  166 

Sorma,  Agnes,  ii,  159 

Sorrento,  i,  300-303 

Sothern,  E.  A.,  i,  69,  70 

Sothern,  E.  H.,  i,  70,  71;   ii,  150,  159 

Sothern,  Lytton,  i,  69 

Stamaty,  Camille,  i,  40 

Stankowitch,  Anthony,  i,  189 

Stanton,  Edmund  C.,  ii,  39,  40,  66 

Stanton,  Secretary  of  War,  i,  29 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  i,  196 

Stein,  Theodore,  ii,  17 

Steinberg,  Albert,  ii,  16,  17,  36,  144 

Steinway,  Charles  H.,  ii,  25 

Steinway  Hall,  ii,  70,  71 

Steinway,  William,  ii,  25,  70 

Stendhal  (Henry  Beyle),  i,  5,  15,  34, 

35,  126,  174,  195,  214,  242,  278;   ii, 

213,235,242,248,266 
Stephen,  Leslie,  i,  6,  202 
Stephens,  James,  i,  25;   ii,  203,  265 
Stern,  Simon,  i,  140 
Sternberg,  Constantine,  i,  145;  ii,  7,  25 
Stetson,  Nahum,  ii,  25 
Stevens,  Alfred,  i,  243,  245 
Stevens,  Thaddeus,  ii,  202 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  i,  198,  213, 

251;   ii,  106 

Stickney,  Joseph  Trumbull,  i,  280 
Stieglitz,  Alfred,  ii,  162 
Stirner,  Max,  i,  4,  no,  242;  ii,  135,  136, 

267 

Stock  company,  the,  i,  72,  73 
Stokowski,  Leopold,  i,  171 
Stoll,  William,  i,  140 
Stone,  Rev.  Dr.  Kent,  i,  55,  56 


INDEX 


325 


Stone-McDonald,  Marie,  ii,  154 
Story,  Julian,  ii,  36 
Strakosch,  Amelia,  ii,  156 
Strakosch,  Maurice  and  Max,  ii,  31 
Strauss,  Johann,  i,  236 
Strauss,  Nathan,  Jr.,  ii,  112 
Strauss,  Richard,  ii,  37,  38,  214,  235 
Streamer,  Volney,  ii,  254 
Strindberg,  i,  242;  ii,  136, 147, 191, 213, 

248,  265,  267 

Stuart,  Gilbert,  i,  47,  48;    ii,  205 
Studley,  J.  B.,  ii,  14 
Studley,  Sam,  ii,  154 
Sullivan,  Arthur,  ii,  61 
Sullivan,  John  L.,  ii,  90 
Sullivan,  John  T.,  ii,  90 
Sullivan,  Will,  i,  177 
Sully,  Thomas,  i,  47,  48;   ii,  202 
Sun,  the  New  York,  ii,  19,  109-112, 

162,  242 
Swinburne,  i,  55,  130,  185,  187,    195, 

196,  207,  272;   ii,  143,  148,  209 
Swinnerton,  Frank,  ii,  29 
Sykes,  Lady,  ii,  271 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  i,  195 
Symons,  Arthur,  i,  71,  274;  ii,  117,  131, 

143,  201,  212,  215 
Synge,  ii,  203,  265 

Tagg,  Robert,  i,  146,  311 

Taine,  i,  165;  ii,  123,  138,  139,  213,  214 

Talazac,  i,  253 

Tayau,  Marie,  i,  253 

Taylor,  Dr.  John,  i,  173 

Teaching  piano,  i,  200,  201 ;   ii,  66,  68, 

69 

Teitlbaum,  Solomon,  ii,  59 
Ternina,  Milka,  ii,  39,  45,  46,  57 
Terry,  Ellen,  ii,  149,  152 
Thackeray,  i,  5,  8,  58,  121,  126,  193; 

ii,  269,  270 

Thalberg,  Sigismund,  i,  38-40,  102,  143 
Theocritus,  i,  205 
Theosophy,  ii,  94-98 
Thibault,  Mrs.  Amelia,  ii,  23 
Thibault,  Carow,  Frank  and  Fritz,  ii, 

23 

Thomas,  Ambroise,  i,  248 
Thomas,  Theodore,  i,   122,   140,   185; 

»,  25,  32,  38,  70,  71 
Thompson,  Francis,  ii,  177 


Thompson,  Lydia,  i,  94,  312 
Thompson,   Vance,   i,    174,   276,   277; 

ii,  90,  91,  189-194,  198,  199,  230 
Thompson,  William,  ii,  149 
Thoreau,  David,  i,  179,  197,  198,  205, 

277 

Thorne,  Charles,  i,  83 
Thouron,  Henry,  i,  240 
Thrane,  ii,  217 
Thunder,  Henry,  i,  27,  188 
Thurber,    Mrs.   Jeannette   M.,   ii,   38, 

40,  65,  66,  68,  69 
Thursby,  Emma,  i,  259 
Tilbury,  Zeffie,  i,  312 
Time  and  the  present,  i,  179,  316 
Times,  the  New  York,  ii,  113 
Tingley,  Katherine,  ii,  94 
Titian,  i,  86 
Tolstoy,  i,  270;   ii,  126,  135,  225,  232, 

262,  267 

Tornado,  a,  i,  16,  17 
Toscanini,  Arturo,  ii,  33,  38,  40,  41 
Toulouse-Lautrec,  i,  270,  272,  273 
Town  Topics,  ii,  112 
Townsend,  Dick,  i,  82,  83,  118 
Townsend,  Edward  W.,  ii,  170 
Towse,  John  Ranken,  ii,  144,  146,  147 
Tragic  Comedians,  The,  ii,  27,  28 
Traubel,  Horace,  i,  196 
Travel,  European,  ii,  113 
Tree,  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm,  i,   312, 

313;   ii,  47,  150 
Tretbar,  Charles  F.,  ii,  25,  70 
Trollope,  Anthony,  i,  125,  126 
Troyon,  ii,  163 

Tschaikovsky,  i,  246,  247;   ii,  208,  214 
Turgenev,  i,  239,  270,  277;  ii,  130,  131, 

133,  137,  232 
Turner,  G.  W.,  ii,  92 
Turner,  J.  M.  W.,  i,  43,  44,  241 ;   ii,  163 
Turner,  Walter,  ii,  14 
Twain,  Mark,  i,  87,  100 
Twitchell,  i,  123 
Tyler,  ex-President,  i,  28 
Tyng-Griswold,  Hattie,  i,  278 

Union  Square,  New  York,  ii,  72,  73 
Urso,  Camilla,  ii,  65 

Van  Beers,  i,  267 
Van  Buest,  i,  134 


326 


INDEX 


Van  der  Kempf,  i,  240 

Van  der  Stucken,  Frank,  ii,  18,  25,  66 

Van  Gogh,  i,  241 ;   ii,  163,  165 

Van  Hook's  restaurant,  i,  157,  158 

Vanier,  Leon,  ii,  119 

Van  Lerberghe,  Charles,  ii,  133 

Van  Oosterzee,  Cornelia,  ii,  114 

Velasquez,  i,  47,  291,  292;  ii,  no,  139, 

1 66,  246 

Venice,  ii,  295-302 
Verdi,  i,  273;   ii,  49 
Verhaeren,  ii,  191 
Verlaine,  Paul,  i,  246;   ii,  119,  191 
Vermeer,  Jan,  i,  47,  291;   ii,  162 
Verne,  Jules,  i,  64,  122,  123;   ii,  127 
Vesuvius,  Mount,  i,  300-302 
Viardot,  ii,  248 
Viele-Griffin,  ii,  119 
Vieuxtemps,  Henri,  i,  38,  40,  185,  253; 

",  31 

Villiers  de  1'Isle  Adam,  i,  244-246 
Villiers,  France,  i,  263,  264 
Viola  (the  character),  ii,  152 
Visionaries,  ii,  216 
Vogrich,  Max,  i,  145 
Voight,  Harry,  i,  21 
Voltaire,  i,  192,  275,  319;   ii,  140 
von  Biilow,  i,  142,  143,  154,  247,  256 
von  Blilow,  Cosima,  ii,  28 
von  Doenniges,  Helena,  ii,  27-30 
von  Inten,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferdinand, 

",25 

von  Lenbach,  ii,  30 
von  Sachs,  Willy,  ii,  16,  144 
von  Shevitch,  Madame,  ii,  27-30 
von  Shevitch,  Serge,  ii,  27,  28,  30 
von  Weber,  i,  167;   ii,  207 
Vos,  Anna  Lasubrecht,  ii,  114 

Wagner,  Richard,  i,  23,  122,  134,  166- 
169,  187,  273,  284;  ii,  4,  28,  30,  38, 
45,  46,  104,  105,  135,  201,  224,  228, 
232,  235,  259,  260 

Wainwright,  Marie,  ii,  152 

Walcot,  Charles,  i,  70,  73;   ii,  152 

Walcot,  Mrs.,  i,  70,  73,  84 

Walker,  General,  i,  138 

Walkowitz,  ii,  163 

Wall  Street,  in  fiction,  ii,  169,  170 

Wallack,  Lester,  ii,  14,  148 

Waller,  Henry,  i,  95;   ii,  66,  239 


Walnut  Street  Theatre  Stock  Com 
pany,  i,  84 

Walton,  F.  Theodore,  i,  123 

Walton,  George  E.,  i,  21 

Walton,  "Pud,"  i,  123 

Warburton,  Barclay,  i,  173 

Ward,  Judge  Henry  Galbraith,  i,  125 

Ware,  Billy,  i,  141,  158 

Warner,  Massah,  i,  199 

Warren,  William,  ii,  155 

Watering-places,  ii,  112 

Watteau,  i,  241 

Watts,  i,  1 86 

Waugh  (the  elder),  i,  47 

Weber,  i,  167;   ii,  207 

Weber,  Lisa,  i,  312 

Weekly  Critical  Review,  The,  Paris,  ii, 
117 

Weil,  Otto,  ii,  39 

Weingartner,  Felix,  ii,  70,  249 

Weir,  Alden,  ii,  162 

Weismann,  i,  14;   ii,  116 

Wells,  Herbert  G.,  i,  123;  ii,  126 

Wenman,  ii,  47 

Werle's  hotel,  ii,  26,  30 

Wesley,  John,  i,  192 

West,  Benjamin,  i,  45 

Western,  Lucille  and  Helen,  i,  85 

Wharton,  Edith,  ii,  169,  171-173,  234, 

235 

Wheeler,  Andrew  C.  (Nym  Crinkle), 
ii,  144,  146 

Wheeler  house,  the,  i,  200 

Where  the  Black  Mass  was  Heard,  i, 
191 

Whistler,  James  McNeil,  i,  45,  240, 
255,  267,  274;  ii,  117,  163,  165,  166, 
242 

White,  Willie,  i,  174 

Whitefield,  Ann,  ii,  270,  271 

Whitman,  Stephen,  i,  83;  ii,  170,  172 

Whitman,  Walt,  i,  5,  56,  57,  90,  100, 
117,  195-198;  ii,  6,  12,  123,  134,  142, 
169,  171,  175,  176,  232,  233,  241 

Wickersham,  Samuel  George  Wood 
ward,  i,  130-132,  135,  138,  160,  182; 
ii,  no 

Widor,  ii,  248 

Wieniawski,  i,  147;   ii,  31 

Wilcox,  Mark,  i,  138 

Wild,  Johnny,  ii,  153 


INDEX 


327 


Wilde,  Oscar,  i,  125,  169;    ii,  II,  37, 

123,  204,  233,  265 
Wilde,  Willie,  ii,  12,  157 
Wilhelmj,  August,  i,  145,  146 
Willard,  ii,  150 
Williams,  Isaac,  i,  47 
Williamson,  Leander,  i,  198-200 
Wilson,  Dr.  Ellwood,  i,  118 
Wilson,  Ellwood,  Jr.,  i,  118,  123,  124 
Wilson,  President  Woodrow,  i,  22,  135; 

ii,  307 

Wilstach,  Paul,  ii,  238 
Wincklemann,  ii,  36 
Winston,  Jeannie,  i,  254 
Winter,  William,  i,  195;    ii,  144,  145, 

Winterbottom,  i,  188 
Wisler,  Martin,  i,  89 
Wolfgang,  Jacob,  i,  251 
Wolsieffer,  i,  188 
Wood,  Archbishop,  i,  60,  189 


Woodward,  Aubertine,  i,  130 
Woodward,  George,  i,  130 
Wordsworth,  i,  43,  316;  ii,  115, 236 
Worth,  M.,  i,  258,  259 
Wullner,  Franz,  i,  153 

Yeamans,  Annie,  ii,  153 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  ii,  117,  203,  242,  243 

Ysaye,  ii,  14 

Zandomenechi,  i,  267 

Zangwill,  Israel,  i,  169,  170,  313;    ii, 

139.  196,  226,  240,  241 
Zeckwer,  Richard,  i,  199 
Zeisler,  Fannie  Bloomfield,  ii,  25 
Zelocca,  Madame,  ii,  79-87 
Ziegler,  Edward,  ii,  16,  17,  42,  43 
Ziem,  i,  254 
Zola,  Emile,  i,  5,  168,  253,  266,  269, 

270,  272,  277;  ii,  169,  192,  196,  228 
Zuloaga,  Ignacio,  ii,  248 


BOOKS    BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

What  some  distinguished  writers  have  said  of  them : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do  you  know 
that  '  Iconoclasts '  is  the  only  book  of  high  and  universal  critical 
worth  that  we  have  had  for  years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg 
Brandes.  It  is  at  once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indul 
gent  and  sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among  other 
things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and  clarity  with 
which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  literary  and  artistic  move 
ments  in  all  countries.  I  do  not  know  of  criticism  more  pure 
and  sure  than  yours."  (October,  1915.) 


"The  Mercure  de  France  translated  the  other  day  from  Scrib- 
ner's  one  of  the  best  studies  which  have  been  written  on  Stendhal 
for  a  long  time,  in  which  there  was  no  evasion  of  the  question 
of  Stendhal's  immorality.  The  author  of  that  article,  James 
Huneker,  is,  among  foreign  critics,  the  one  best  acquainted 
with  French  literature  and  the  one  who  judges  us  with  the  great 
est  sympathy  and  with  the  most  freedom.  He  has  protested 
with  force  in  numerous  American  journals  against  the  cam 
paign  of  defamation  against  France,  and  he  has  easily  proved 
that  those  who  participate  in  it  are  ignorant  and  fanatical." 
— "Promenades  Litter  air  es"  (Troisieme  Serie),  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont.  (Translated  by  Burton  Rascoe  for  the  Chicago  Tribune.) 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of  "Egoists": 
"I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of  your  book  and  found 
that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic  style  on  diverse  problems, 
artistic  and  literary.  In  the  case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity 
of  treatment  is  extremely  rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound  Danish  critic, 
wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view  and  its  expression  more 
European  than  American;  but  the  essential  thing  is  that  you 
are  an  artist  to  your  very  marrow." 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

LETTERS  OF 
JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 

These  letters  have  all  the  brilliance  of  his  essays,  but  a  greater 
spontaneity  and  if  possible  a  more  vivid  spirit. 

Among  the  people  to  whom  they  are  written  are  Royal  Cor- 
tissoz,  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  Richard  Aldrich,  H.  E.  Krehbiel, 
Benjamin  de  Casseres,  W.  C.  Brownell,  Walter  Pritchard  Eaton, 
William  Marion  Reedy,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  Elizabeth  Jordan,  Frida 
Ashforth,  Emma  Eames,  Henry  James,  Jr.,  etc. 

Every  page  is  alive  with  pointed  comment,  brilliant  char 
acterization,  and  vivid  portraiture.  Bohemian  and  literary 
New  York  of  the  last  several  decades  is  mirrored  in  these  letters. 


STEEPLEJACK 

ILLUSTRATED 

"  Not  only  interesting  because  of  its  record  of  Mr.  Huneker's 
career  and  philosophy,  but  because  it  gives  an  excellent  idea  of 
the  developments  in  art,  music,  and  literature,  both  in  Europe 
and  in  America,  during  the  last  forty  years." 

— WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Yale  University. 


VARIATIONS 

"Hold  your  breath  as  you  go  through  this  book — touring  the 
universe  with  a  man  who  takes  all  of  life  in  its  everlasting  fecun 
dity  and  efflorescence  for  his  theme." 

— BENJAMIN  DE  CASSERES,  in  the  New  York  Herald. 


BEDOUINS 

Mary  Garden;  Debussy;  Chopin  or  the  Circus;  Botticelli;  Poe; 
Brahmsody;  Anatole  France;  Mirbeau;  Caruso  on  Wheels; 
Calico  Cats;  the  Artistic  Temperament;  Idols  and  Ambergris; 
With  the  Supreme  Sin;  Grindstones;  A  Masque  of  Music  and 
The  Vision  Malefic. 


IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

"His  critical  tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .    His  position 
among  writers  on  aesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no 
merchant  traffics  in  his  heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager, 
an  affectionate  public." 
— LAWRENCE  GILMAN,  in  N orth  American  Review  (October,  1915). 


BOOKS     BY     JAMES     HUNEKER 

UNICORNS 

"The  essays  are  short,  full  of  a  satisfying — and  fascinating — 

crispness,  both  memorable  and  delightful.    And  they  are  full  of 

fancy,  too,  of  the  gayest  humor,  the  quickest  appreciation,  the 

gentlest  sympathy,  sometimes  of  an  enchanting  extravagance." 

— New  York  Times. 

MELOMANIACS 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  sum  up  ' Melomaniacs '  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater 
contrasts,  not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clear 
ness  and  obscurity." 
— HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8,  1906). 

VISIONARIES 

"In  'The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both 
fantasy  and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in 
his  most  unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his 
Nietzsche  and  has  cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Haw 
thorne's  Puritanism  finds  no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all 
sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed.  But  Hawthorne's  splendor 
of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with  a  tormented  mind 
do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 

— London  Academy  (Feb.  3,  1906). 

ICONOCLASTS :  A  Book  of  Dramatists 

"His  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in 
which  we  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every 
sentence." — G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  News. 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to 
the  music  and  gives  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as 
few  words  as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine, 
broad,  sweeping  strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  un 
important  details.  And  as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a 
powerful  personality,  a  man  of  quick  brain  and  an  energetic 
imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  temperament — a  string  that 
vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — we  get  in  these  essays 
of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable  contribution  to 
the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT  AND  FACSIMILE  REPRODUCTIONS 

"  Closely  and  yet  lightly  written,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing 
as  a  bit  of  discursive  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  and  very 
shrewd." — ROYAL  CORTISSOZ,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 
"The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even  with  an  unexpected 
brilliancy." — Chicago  Tribune. 

OVERTONES: 

A  Book  of  Temperaments 
WITH  FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD  STRAUSS 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 
brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST 

"  We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for  us 
the  technical  contributions  of  Cezanne  and  Rodin.  Here  Mr. 
Huneker  is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience  of 
men  and  ways  in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the  slighter 
vein,  are  such  appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Chardin." 
— FRANK  JEWETT  MATHER,  JR., 

in  New  York  Nation  and  Evening  Post. 

NEW  ODSMOPOLIS 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a 
craftsman  of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive 
and  distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists. 
He  is  intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers, 
and  not  lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  He 
flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent  heat ;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be 
enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape  that  large  sentimentality 
which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic  writers,  is  known  nakedly 
as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos  of  reading  and  observation 
he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of  life  that  makes  for  in 
tellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bohemian  rather  than  an 
academic  kind." — London  Athen&um  (November  6,  1915). 

FRANZ  LISZT 

WITH  NUMEROUS   ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHOPIN:  The  Man  and  His  Music 


138837 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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